Standing Still
by Pipsqueak
Summary: COMPLETE! The past and present, truth and lies, converge as Darien returns from visiting his aunt...
1. Part 1: The Friendly Skies

**STANDING STILL**

Author:  Pipsqueak

Rating: PG-13 for the most part, though there will be one part that will be posted in both PG and NC-17 versions

Spoilers:  Oh, yeah, they're in there.  And if you can find and list 'em all, I'll send you a virtual basket of chocolate. 

Category: Romance, Angst, Drama, Humor (shaken vigorously and served with a twist eg)

Disclaimers: The Invisible Man and its characters belong to Stu Segall Productions and the Sci-Fi channel.  Anybody else belongs to me.  'Nuff said.

A/N:  I am deeply indebted to someone for the concept of Darien's "internal Bobby Hobbes."  I just wish I could remember from where and from whom I stole it.  ;-p

The Vagabond Inn really does exist in Sacramento, though I've never been.  Heck for all I know it could be a palace, but judging from the little write-up in the travel guide, I think I've portrayed it pretty accurately.  The same is true for the Shilo Inn in Delano. I do know from personal experience that the description of Rent-A-Wreck cars is quite accurate. g

I also want to thank my fabulous betas, Suz and Adel, for giving me great insights, wonderful character corrections and just general moral support when I wanted to take this whole dang thing and throw it out the window. :-)

**Part 1 -- The Friendly Skies**

A modern day poet named Jewel once asked the musical question:  "Am I standing still/with the scenery flying by/Am I standing still/Was that you/Out of the corner of my eye/Passing me by?"  Well, ever since I got a biosynthetic gland implanted in my head, I've felt like I was constantly running.  Running from a myriad of bad guys that want me dead, running from an agency that's trying to enslave me, running from the madness that threatens to engulf me.  But now it seems that despite my running, when I think about what really matters most in my life, all I've really been doing is standing still.

* * *

Darien Fawkes squirmed in his seat, desperately trying to find the most comfortable position in which to sit with his knees practically pushed up into his chest.  It had been a long drive to the airport, but at least the car had been comfortable.  Yeah, the Rent-A-Wreck had pretty much been just that -- a wreck -- but the old model had had enough room for him to stretch his long limbs during the trek from Cold Springs to Sacramento.

Now he was stuck trying to perform physical origami, unsuccessfully fitting himself into an economy window seat as he waited for his flight to fill up.  He sighed, twisted his knees to the right and his shoulders to the left, felt his back complain.  'Damn, cheap Agency,' he thought, not for the first time, 'I never should have agreed to let Eberts make my reservations.'  His seat was at the rear of the plane, too, which meant he was first on and last off.  That was OK, though, he could fill his time silently enumerating the various ways he was going to make the Agency's bean counter extraordinaire pay for this little slice of hell:

#1:  Break all the erasers off Eberts' pencils and replace them in the cup on his desk.

#2:  Scotch tape the paper in his adding machine so it wouldn't feed out.

#3:  Move all his "M" files to the "N" drawer and vice versa.

#4:  Write "Ebes Sucks" on the second page of all the Agency's carbon forms.

He was just warming up to number five on his hit list, when he heard a hubbub.  He glanced up, over the heads of the other passengers, and saw what looked like an overstuffed duffel bag walking itself down the aisle.  From somewhere behind the bag, he could hear a muffled, female voice apologizing profusely every time the luggage strayed from the middle and bumped into someone sitting in an aisle seat.  He watched the duffel bag get closer and closer, contemplated the empty aisle seat next to him and groaned.  Oh, it just *figured*.

Sure enough, the duffel came to a halt in front of his row and dropped.  Which was exactly when things started looking up because the disembodied female voice belonged to a very nicely bodied female in a form-fitting, deep-plum wrap dress.  And he was going to be sitting right next to Miss Plum the whole flight.  Suddenly he forgot that his body was twisted into the shape of a pretzel.  In fact, if Eberts had been there at that moment, he would cheerfully have kissed him.

He put on his most charming smile and reached out a hand to introduce himself, but Miss Plum apparently had bigger fish to fry.  She dropped her briefcase, grabbed the overstuffed duffel, climbed onto her seat and commenced trying to force the luggage into the overhead compartment.  As Miss Plum pushed and shoved at the obstinate bag, the hemline of her dress, already at his eyelevel, rose and plunged like the surf with her every effort.  And so Darien faced yet another ride on the moral roller coaster that was his life.  

"To peek or not to peek/That is the question."  He wondered whether Shakespeare would have approved of that particular paraphrase.  Darien suspected he would have, since ole Will had been a pretty randy guy himself.  The devil on Darien's shoulder was just about to light a victory cigar, when Darien caught a look at the teenage boy in the aisle seat across from Miss Plum.  The kid, who had obviously never even considered fighting temptation, actually winked at him.  'Great,' he thought, 'I'm about to give in to the impulses of a 15-year old.'

He sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, and then put on his best "Darien Fawkes to the rescue" face.  "Excuse me, miss," he started.  She just continued to fight with her bag, too engrossed in her battle to hear him.  "Uhm, miss...."  He reached up and gently tapped her on the back, which startled her.  Which wasn't really all that good, because she lost her balance.  Which was definitely not good because she and the duffel-of-death fell in a heap in the middle of the aisle.  Not really the kind of rescue he'd had in mind, he thought.

"Ahhh, I'm, ahh, sorry.  I just, uhm, thought, you know, maybe it might be better if I, ah, you know, put the bag into the overhead for you."  He unfolded his limbs as he stood up from his seat and promptly whacked his head on the underside of the overhead. He could hear his inner-Bobby Hobbes intone: 'Oh, smooth, Fawkes, real smooth.'  

She blinked deep blue eyes at him and grinned wanly.  "Are you OK?"

"Who me?  Yeah, yeah, I'm just peachy."  He made his way out into the aisle.  Hoisting the duffel he rammed it into the overhead while the kid shot daggers into his back.  "There you go.  See, nothing to it."  He put his charming smile back on and turned around to face her ... with his chest.

He watched as her head snapped back and up.  She blinked again.  "Good god, you're tall," she blurted out.  "Oh, oh, I'm sorry.  My bad.  Here you are helping me and I go and ..."

"No, no, it's OK," he laughed, "I actually get that a lot."  He started folding himself back up to return to his seat by the window and groaned.

"Are you sure you're OK?"

"Yeah, it's just that, you know, economy class ain't exactly a trip to Disney World for me here."

"Hmmm, well, I can understand that.  But, hey, why are you sitting in a window seat?  Wouldn't you be more comfortable on the aisle?  I mean, at least you could stretch your legs out some .... "

"Oh, I guess it's just those kooky airline folks and their goofy senses of humor," he waved his boarding pass at her.

She looked at his seat assignment for a second, then huffed.  "Well listen, I've got the aisle seat right next to you.  Why don't we switch?"

He just stared at her for a second, not daring to believe his salvation was at hand -- and in a purple dress no less.  "Wow.  That, that would be great.  Only if you don't mind, of course."

"Oh no, I don't mind.  After all, you did come to my rescue with my bag.  It's the least I can do."  She grabbed her briefcase and started into the row before Darien had a chance to come all the way out.  For a moment they were pressed up against each other as they tried to slide past in the narrow space.  He finally reached behind her and pulled up the armrest between the two seats so she had a little more room to maneuver.  In doing so, he might have let his hand rest on her rump for a second or two longer than was strictly necessary, but, hey, he was the hero here, wasn't he? 

They finally managed to squeeze past each other and she busied herself with settling into the window seat, removing a large drawing pad and some colored sketching pencils from her briefcase before shoving it under the seat in front of her.  

Darien felt the plane push away from the gate as he lowered himself into the coveted outer seat, stretching his legs into the aisle.  Ignoring the stewardesses as they began their mandatory safety drill, he sighed contentedly, then turned to Miss Plum and held out his hand.  "I'm, ah, Dar...."

"Ray Miller."

Darien jerked and looked hard at her.  "That's right.  How'd you know?"  He'd forgotten that Eberts had made his airplane reservations in the name of one of his former aliases.  He hadn't been crazy about the idea, but the 'Fish and Hobbes had argued it was a necessary precaution, just in case Chrysalis or Arnaud were keeping tabs on flights into and out of Sacramento, hoping to catch Darien on one of his infrequent visits to his Aunt Celia.  Now this woman had just pulled that name out of the thin air.

"Oh, I, ah, peeked at your ticket attached to your boarding pass."  She raised her eyebrows and grinned sideways at him.

"Hmmm, I see.  Well, you know what curiosity got the cat, don't you?"

"Ah, but if you recall, satisfaction brought him back, no?"

"Why, yes, that's right.  I'm impressed." He twisted in his seat to face her more fully and lowered his voice.  "Now, when are you going to satisfy me?"

"I beg your pardon."  Miss Plum suddenly transformed into Darien's third-grade teacher as her eyes hardened and the smile slid off her face.

"By telling me your name, of course."  He raised his own eyebrows and grinned back at her.

"Of course."  Her features softened as her fair skin flushed.  "I'm Lola.  Lola Gerot."

"As in, 'Whatever Lola wants ...." He conducted a pretend orchestra with his finger.

"'Lola gets.' Yes." She laughed lightly, shaking her head.  The scent of vanilla sugar and almonds wafted up and tickled his nose as her dark, chin-length hair rustled with the movement.  "My mother was an amateur actress.  When she became pregnant with me, she was starring in a neighborhood production of 'Damn Yankees.'"

"Let me guess -- she was Lola?"

"Give the man a cigar.  Hey, it could have been worse.  When my sister was conceived she was starring in the church production of 'Camelot.'"

"Oh, she didn't."

"Oh, she did.  My sister's name is Guinevere."

"Ouch."  And he'd thought Darien was an unusual name.

She chuckled.  "Yeah, Gwen's not too fond of it either."  

The pilot's voice came over the loudspeaker, informing the flight attendants to prepare for departure.  With the roar of the engines effectively finishing their conversation, Darien looked over at Lola and smiled again as the plane left the ground.  Yes, this flight was definitely taking off.

* * *

Once in the air, the flight attendants began making the rounds offering drinks and pretzels to the passengers.  The kid across the aisle continued to stare at Darien, who sat next to Lola, trying to drum up a way to restart their conversation.  She was sitting quietly, concentrating on sketching something in her pad.  He tilted his head to get a better view.  It was a nice little still life of richly colored packages tied with gilt ribbons.  Tucked in here and there were roses in all stages of bloom and varying from a vibrant, deep scarlet to a pure white edged in the palest pink.

"That's pretty.  Are you an artist or something?"

She stopped sketching for a moment, then continued without looking up at him.  "Or something."

"Hmmm, I see.  Are we going to have to revisit the whole curiosity/satisfaction thing again?"  He gave her the merest taste of his sad puppy eyes.  It wouldn't do to look too pathetic too soon, he thought.

She cocked her head, looked at him and put down her pencil. "No, we aren't.  I am an artist of sorts.  I specialize in edible art."

"Edible art?"

"Yeah, like one-of-a-kind wedding cakes, which is exactly what this is."  She handed him the sketchpad so he could take a better look.  

"You mean this is going to be a *cake*?"  She nodded at him.  He looked more closely at the sketch.  It was incredibly intricate.  Each package had its own textured wrapping paper.  The ribbons and bows looked as if they'd been tied by hand.  The flowers appeared to have just been cut from the garden.  "That's incredible."

"So I've been told.  They taste good too.  That's a problem with a lot of other chefs' cakes.  They concentrate so hard on making the cakes look good that they forget people have to eat them."  She lifted her chin and gave a silent little sniff as she said the last part.

He looked at the sketch again; there had to be a *ton* of work involved in making one of these things.  "They must cost a bunch."

"Well, that one there is going to cost the happy couple about $750."  Darien let out a low whistle.  "Hey, that's a small price to pay for the crowning glory at their wedding.  Besides, these folks can afford it, believe me."

"So that's what you do, huh?  Make fancy cakes for rich snobs?"  He let out a soft snicker.

"Don't knock it.  It's a decent living.  Besides, I like to think of it as helping people celebrate the really important events in life.  It may seem like a lot for a cake, but what kind of price can you put on a memory?"

"Well, I guess when you put it like that..."

"That's right."  He watched her mouth turn into a smug smile, the groaned inwardly, tensing for what was coming next.  "So what do you do, Mr. Miller?"

Darien thought quickly, then spouted out, "I'm, ah, in security."

"You mean like a security guard?"  

"No, no," he shook his head, "More high tech."

"Oh, you mean like those alarm systems and stuff?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's it.  My, uhm, partner and I, we, ah, specialize in large scale security systems.  You know, like in corporations and banks and, uhm, those kinds of things."  Okay, so that was about the most transparent lie he'd ever told, but hell, it was definitely better than Hobbes' textile line.

She opened her mouth to say something else, but was preempted by the captain's voice over the loudspeaker.  "Well, folks, I'm sorry to have to inform you but we're going to be returning to Sacramento.  There's a couple of warning lights that have come up in the cockpit.  It's probably nothing to worry about, but these days it's always better safe than sorry."

With September 11 still fresh in everyone's memories, a hushed gasp rose from the passengers as the plane executed a wide turn back to where they'd come from.  The stewardesses hurried to and fro, trying to calm the more agitated flyers while getting their gear stowed back away.  

Darien watched silently as Lola simply took the sketchpad away from him and stashed it in her briefcase with her pencils.  Then she put her seat back and closed her eyes, calmly waiting for the plane to land.  Darien looked at her sitting there completely unruffled.  She was either the coolest traveler he'd ever seen or ... it was almost as if she'd been expecting it.  Ok, where had that thought come from?  Maybe he was giving his inner Bobby Hobbes just a little too much free reign over his psyche these days.  Darien grimaced, sighed and decided to follow Lola's lead, reclining his seat and blocking out the panicked vibe permeating the cabin.

* * *

The plane landed and the passengers disembarked. Darien grabbed his own bag from under the seat, stepped into the aisle and was promptly bowled over by his teenage nemesis making a mad dash for the cabin door.  With a loud, "Excuse me," directed at the kid's departing back, he collected himself again and grabbed both his and Lola's bag.  Departing the plane with Lola in tow, he deposited both their bags at the edge of the disgruntled mob surrounding the airline counter.  

While they waited for news on the next flight to L.A. and what was going to happen to their connecting flight to San Diego, Darien tried to nonchalantly stick as close to Lola as he could.  Flights between Sacramento and L.A. were scarce enough thanks to the airline schedule cutbacks stemming back to 9/11, but connecting flights to San Diego were almost non-existent these days.  Finally a beleaguered voice came over the P.A.:  "United Airlines regrets to announce the cancellation of flight #120.  Our next flight to L.A. won't be leaving until tomorrow morning.  If you'll return at that time, we'll do our best to accommodate you on that flight.  Those needing lodging for the night, please see one of the two agents at baggage claim seven."

Lola groaned, grabbed the strap on her duffel and began to drag it towards the escalator.  Darien quickly stepped next to her.  "Here, why don't you let me carry that for you?"

"Oh, no, it's OK.  I take this thing everywhere.  I'm used to it."

"Yeah, I'm sure you are.  But I don't mind and it really looks way too heavy for you."

Lola gave a sigh that Darien thought sounded somewhere between frustration and resignation, and dropped the strap.  "It's very kind of you, but completely unnecessary."

He grabbed the strap and hoisted the bag.  "I know.  But hey, rescuing damsels in distress is sort of a hobby of mine."

She reached out to snatch the strap back.  "Who said I was in distress?  I'm not helpless, you know.  I told you, I carry it all the time."

He smoothly moved ahead of her grasp.  "Look, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to imply that you're helpless.  It's just that, you know, if you're going down to the baggage claim, and I'm going down to the baggage claim, why should you bother with it, right?"

"Well, OK," she said, following him onto the escalator.  "I take it that you're going to be staying in whatever dump they decide to put us up in tonight too."

"Yeah, I guess I am," he replied as they reached the baggage claim area and looked around for the two airline agents.  She spied them first and dashed over with Darien hurrying to keep up under the weight of the luggage.  For someone so reticent to let him carry her bag, she'd certainly gotten accustomed to the idea pretty quickly.  'Just like a chick,' he thought, 'All no, no, no I can do it myself until they rope you into doing it for them.'

* * *

Darien lay on the bed flipping through the meager channels his TV offered.  His eyes wandered around his tiny room.  One bed with a threadbare flowered comforter.  Orange carpet with burnholes.  Matching tweed curtains with a thick layer of dust at the top.  Quite the luxury suite he had here at the Vagabond Inn.  Lola was right.  The airline had found the worst dump in Sacramento to house them this evening.

He rubbed his face, sighed and checked his tattoo absently.  It was almost halfway red, just as he'd suspected.  He mentally tabulated his sanity ledger.  He'd had his shot on Thursday and hadn't left for Cold Springs until Friday morning.  It was now Sunday night, which gave him until Wednesday before he was ready for the rubber room.  'All the time in the world,' he thought ruefully.  His stomach growled, interrupting his silent accounting.  He flicked off the TV and decided to go down to the bar for a burger and a beer.

Entering the dimly lit lounge, Darien did a quick sweep of the place before spying Lola, sitting at the bar and sipping something amber colored out of a martini glass while staring at the TV overheard.  'Almost as if she's waiting for me,' he thought.  Darien walked over next to her, leaned against the bar and grinned.  "So what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" 

"Please tell me you don't actually use that line."

"No, no, not usually.  But to tell the truth, I have always wanted to say it."

She laughed and gave him a conspiratorial look.  "You know what I've always wanted to say?"

Darien popped a few beer nuts in his mouth and shook his head.  

"Fancy meeting you here!"  She giggled and took another sip of her drink.

Darien laughed politely and swallowed more nuts.  "So, uhm, really, what's up?"

"Well, I have just successfully fended off the advances of three very drunk businessmen and ordered some dinner."

"Hmm, sounds good. That's why I came down here too."

"To fend off drunken businessmen?"  She took another sip and put her empty glass down. 

"No, to get some dinner."  He smiled broadly.  "I'm thinking this place looks a burger barn."

"Oh, good choice, sir."  She nodded approvingly.

"Can I get you something?"  The bartender's question momentarily intruded on their verbal jousting. 

"Uh, yeah, I'll have a bacon cheeseburger, rare, and a draft.  Oh, and another of whatever the lady's having."  Darien looked over at Lola.  "That is if the lady doesn't have any objections.  I wouldn't want to get brushed off like those other three guys."

"Oh, no, Mr. Miller, I'd be happy to dine with you in this fine establishment."  She swiveled her stool seat to face him, crossed her legs, leaned against the bar and smiled right back at him.  "It's a Rob Roy, extra cherries, please."

"Well then," he said to the bartender, "that should do us for now."

The bartender turned to Lola.  "So, ah, you want I should bring your food with his?"

"Mmmhmm," she nodded her assent, looked around, then pointed to the empty table in the corner.  "But could you please have the waitress bring it to that table?"

"Sure, no problem."  The bartender gave Darien a knowing smile that was the visual equivalent of a low five.  Darien stepped away from the bar while Lola slid off the stool and grabbed her purse from the seat back.  They looked at each other for a second, smiled and then with a sweep of his arm he gestured for her to go first.  "After you, mademoiselle."

She walked past him towards the table.  "It's madam."

"Huh?"

"It's madam, actually.  You called me mademoiselle.  Gerot is my married name.  Therefore it's madam."

"Oh, uh, wow," Darien felt his spirits sink.  "I'm sorry.  I, uh, didn't realize.  You're not wearing a ring."  They sat across from each other at the table as he struggled to get a handle on his discomfort.  When he worked up the courage to look her in the face again, she was laughing.

"Relax, Ray.  It's OK.  I'm divorced; I just kept my married name," she grinned at his blush.  "Though I am flattered to know that you checked for a ring."

She stopped speaking as the waitress put their drinks in front of them.  She picked hers up, eyed the three cherries in the bottom of the glass thoughtfully, then poked her fingers in and snagged one.  She popped it in her mouth and smiled as she chewed. 

"Besides," she said, leaning over the table to him.  "We're just having burgers.  Last I heard having burgers together was a completely innocent occupation."  She pulled back and eyed him like he was the last cherry in her drink.  "Unless of course there's something I should know about the way you eat your burgers."  

OK, he could recognize open flirting when he saw it.  Darien relaxed his shoulders and mentally patted himself on the back with a silent 'You da man!'  He leaned back in his seat, crossed his arms behind his head and gave her a studied look.  "Somehow, Lola, I don't think any activity is completely innocent when you're involved."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Mushroom Swiss?"  They both turned their heads to look at the waitress who had somehow snuck up on them while carrying two large plates of burgers and fries.

"Ah, that's me," Lola pointed at her place setting and the waitress put her plate down.

Darien smiled at the waitress, "Which I guess makes me ..."

"Bacon cheese.  Yeah, I got it, Einstein."  The waitress dropped his plate in front of him and left.

"Ooooh, I think she likes you."  Lola held up her monster burger and took a strategic bite.

"Yeah, you think so?"  Darien picked up his own burger and dove in, covering himself in grease and ketchup.   

As he swiped at his face with his napkin, Lola giggled.  "Oh yeah, you're a real charmer.  She's a sure thing, baby."

"Why Miss Lola, you say the sweetest things," he mock drawled.  She giggled again and they passed their meal that way, chatting companionably and making up tall tales about the people in the bar.  The woman sitting by the jukebox was a runaway mafia bride.  The two men playing pool were actually professional card sharps on their way to Vegas.  He almost choked on his hamburger when she decided that the portly, balding, middle-aged guy at the end of the bar was secretly a crime-fighting superhero.

They lingered a bit after they finished, sipping the bar's insipid coffee.  Finally, Lola stretched her arms up and yawned.  "Well, I guess I'm going to call it a night, Ray.  Gotta get to that airport bright and early, you know.  How much do I owe for dinner?"

"Forget it.  It's on me."

"Oh, no.  I couldn't.  That's completely not necessary."

"No, really.  I want to.  Besides, what's a couple of burgers between friends, right?"

"Well, OK, but hey, listen, I'll get breakfast."

"Really?"  Darien's eyes brightened and his grin grew wider as his eyebrows flew up.

Lola laughed at him again.  "Relax, Ray.  Breakfast comes free with the room in this joint.  I'll meet you for coffee in the lobby at 7, OK?  We can share a cab back to the airport."

Darien pouted playfully.  "Well, OK, I guess," he said doing his best 5-year-old imitation.  She held out her hand.  Darien took it, squeezed it, then shook it firmly.

"Good night, Lola."

"Good night, Ray.  Sweet dreams."  Then she was gone.

Darien sat, sipping his coffee and scratching his chin.  It had been a long time since he'd had such a pleasant evening, filled with amusing conversation, relaxed conviviality and absolutely no fear of someone trying to kidnap or kill him.  It was almost as if he'd been normal again.

The phantom scent of vanilla sugar and almonds wafted back to him, like an old friend he hadn't thought of in years.  What was it called again?  Frangipani.  Yeah, that was it.  His mother had been partial to it.  Like Lola, she had been a woman bubbling over with silly stories, laughter, and the scent of vanilla sugar and almonds.  She hadn't been able to afford many luxuries, what with being a single mother and trying to make ends meet.  Feeding and clothing her two boys had always come first, but there had usually been an inexpensive -- well, OK, cheap -- bottle of cologne from the five-and-dime on her dresser.

One night, when his mother had been out on one of her dates, he'd snuck into her bedroom and sat staring at the near-empty bottle on her dresser, trying to sound out the unfamiliar word, tripping over it by mistakenly using a hard "g" sound every time.

"Frangi ... franga ...."

"Hey, what are you doing?  You know you're not supposed to be in here."  Kevin stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, trying to give off all the air of authority a 10-year old could to his kid brother.

"I'm not touching nothing, Kev.  It's just that, well, you know that perfume mom always wears?"

"Yeah."

"I was thinking, if we knew what kind it was, maybe we could save up some money -- like birthday money or our allowance -- and see if we could buy her a bottle, like a Christmas present, you know, only it's not Christmas."

Kevin smiled at his little brother, sat down on the bed next to him and ruffled his hair.  "You know what, D, that is a *great* idea.  It's fran-ji-pan-e," Kevin pronounced it slowly and waited for Darien to say it back to him.

"Fran-ji-pan-e.  Got it."

"If you wanted to know what it was called, you should have just asked me. I could have told you," Kevin stood and grabbed his brother's hand.  "Now, come on and get back to bed before Mrs. Creedy wakes up from her nap on the sofa and we both get in trouble." 

"OK, Kev," Darien followed his older brother to the bedroom they shared.  "But you know, sometimes I like to figure things out for myself."

"That's good, D," Kevin tucked his brother into bed and flicked off the light before climbing into his own bed.

"Hey, Kev?"

"Yeah."

"We'll go tomorrow and see how much that perfume's gonna cost, right?"

Kevin yawned, closed his eyes.  "Yeah, D.  We'll go tomorrow."

But they hadn't gone the next day, because their mother hadn't returned home that night or any other night.  Instead they'd buried her, but not without her beloved perfume.  Darien had gone to the store himself and snatched a small bottle off the shelf when no one was looking.  He'd snuck that bottle into her coffin during the wake, because he couldn't bear to think of her, even in death, without the smell of vanilla sugar and almonds surrounding her.

And now Lola had popped into his life out of the blue, bringing that scent back to him.  Life was weird that way, man.  Every time you turned around there was another déjà vu staring you in the face.  Darien rubbed his eyes, shook his head and took one last sip of his coffee.  He signed the bill to his room, then got up from the table and quit the bar.

As Darien left, Lola's portly superhero made his way to the pay phone at the back of the bar.  He dialed a number, heard it ring and waited for an answer.

"Stark."

"Yeah, it's me.  He's traveling under the name of Ray Miller, but we have visual confirmation of his identity.  It's Darien Fawkes, for sure."

"Good work.  What's his next move?"

"He's just finished dinner and is heading back to his room.  He's supposed to catch a flight out to L.A. in the morning.  It'd be a piece of cake to snatch him tonight if you want."

"He's on his way back to L.A. in the morning, you say?  And our other agent is still in play?"

"Yes on both counts."

"Well, then, let him get to L.A. on his own and we'll grab him there.  It'll be easier than trying to drag him all the way back here against his will.  I'll have Connor and his men waiting at LAX.  You and your partner just stick close to Mr. Fawkes and do *not* screw this up."

"Don't worry, Stark.  I may just be a freelancer and not be one of your wunderkinds like your other agent, but I am capable of tailing a guy.  You'll get Fawkes in L.A."

"Make sure that I do.  I'm not a man who handles disappoint well, Clyde."


	2. Part 2: King of the Road

Part 2 -- King of the Road  
  
A chick in the know named Mother Theresa once said: "There are no problems in life, only gifts." Well, I didn't know it when I woke up that beautiful fall morning, but apparently somebody had decided it was time for my own personal Christmas.  
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Darien heard Lola before he saw her. Coming down the stairs, he could hear her laughing, though not the full out laugh she'd shared with him the night before; this was more polite, more restrained. He turned the corner and saw her. She was standing by the coffee urns, holding a cup and chatting with a businessman in a suit. Every few words, the businessman would lean in closer and Lola would back up a step or two.  
  
"Lola, sweetie, there you are!" Darien waved from across the room at her. She smiled broadly at him as the businessman stiffened and finally moved back a step. Darien hustled over, dropped his bags and put his arm around her shoulders. "Who's your friend, honey?" He turned to the businessman and winked. "I swear, it's all I can do to keep an eye on this little one, the way she keeps meeting people." Without a word, the businessman vanished into the crowd of guests reviewing the meager selection of store-bought pastries the hotel had laid out.  
  
"So who was he: drunken businessman 1, 2, or 3?"  
  
"Number three, actually. And, uh, you can remove your arm now, Ray."  
  
"What, and give number three the wrong idea?"  
  
"Frankly, it's not him I'm so worried about getting the wrong idea anymore."  
  
Darien removed his arm and sighed mournfully. "Jeez, and here I thought we were burger buddies and all...."  
  
"Oh, we are, Ray. And I did promise you breakfast, didn't I? Can I get you a cup of the world's worst coffee? And would you like one fake creamer or two?"  
  
"Ah, you know what? I somehow think I'm going to skip the coffee this morning. I'm just gonna snag a juice and a Danish." Darien looked around the crowded lobby, saw there was no place to just sit and talk. "Then let's grab a cab to the airport, OK?"   
  
Lola shrugged. "Whatever."  
  
With juice and breakfast pastry in hand, Darien grabbed his bag and headed for the door. Lola was waiting with her overstuffed duffel curbside. Spotting an available cab in the traffic waiting for the light to change, Darien tried his best to start hailing it with the hand holding his breakfast. Lola waved his arm down. "Relax, Ray, I got this one covered." She put two fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle that literally stopped traffic -- the pedestrian traffic around the hotel at least. But lo and behold, the cab came cruising up to the curb right in front of them. Darien just stared at her.   
  
"What can I say? It's one of the joys of being a native New Yorker. We know how to hail cabs." She shrugged again and got in the back of the cab while Darien and the driver sorted out the bag situation. Darien climbed in back with her and downed his breakfast before they'd even gone a block. By the second block he knew something was wrong. By the third block, he'd figured out what it was.  
  
"Stop! We have to go back."  
  
"What are you talking about? Driver, keep going."  
  
"Stop, I mean it. We have got to go back."  
  
The driver pulled over to the curb and turned back to both of them. "OK, so which is it: turn around or go to the airport?"  
  
"Go to the airport."  
  
"Turn around."  
  
"What is the matter with you? If we turn around now, we could get caught in rush hour traffic and miss our flight."  
  
"Yeah, but I left something in my room and we have to go back for it."  
  
She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. "Is it a matter of life and death?"  
  
"Yes, yes it is," he threw her the full-blown sad puppy dog eyes. "Trust me. We *have* to go back."  
  
She sighed through clenched teeth. "Alright, driver, then go back it is."  
  
He jumped out of the cab before the driver had a chance to stop at the hotel curb. She followed hot on his heels.  
  
"What are you doing? Just wait in the cab." He buzzed through the revolving doors.  
  
"No, I want to see what was so damn important we had to come all the way back here for it." She did her best double time to try and keep pace with his long strides through the lobby.  
  
"Fine," he said bounding the stairs, "Follow me."  
  
"Hey, don't you need to stop at the front desk and get the key?" she asked from the bottom of the stairs.  
  
"Take too long. You got a hairpin or pen or something?"  
  
"Yeah, a pen." She dug through her purse on her way up the stairs. She handed him the pen when she reached the top and he promptly tore it apart and started bending the innards. "Hey, you didn't tell me you were going to kill it! What the hell are you doing?"  
  
"You'll see," he told her over his shoulder as he ran down the hall and knelt in front of the door to what had recently been his room. In a few seconds he turned the knob and swung the door open. He ran inside and straight into the bathroom.  
  
"Well, that was interesting." She followed him into the bathroom and stopped dead. "Hair gel. You made us come back for hair gel?"  
  
"Are you kidding? This is expensive stuff. And it's the only one that gives me the fullness I want without making my hair all sticky and droopy."  
  
She leaned her head back, closed one eye and studied his hair. Then she reached up and ran her hand through it. "You know, you do have nice hair, Ray. I gotta admit it."  
  
"See, now you're talking. C'mon, let's go." He grabbed her by the hand, steering her out of the room, down the stairs and out into the waiting cab.   
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As the cab pulled up to the airport curb, they both jumped out of the back. Lola paid the driver while Darien grabbed their luggage out of the trunk. According to the lobby screens, their flight was already boarding. Once through the now heightened security checkpoint, they took off at a flat out run for Gate 25. They arrived just in time ... to see the jetway pull back from the plane.  
  
Lola ran up to the gate agents. "Wait, wait, we need to be on that flight."  
  
The gate agents stared dumbly at her.  
  
"You need to put the jetway back. We're supposed to be on that plane." She waved her ticket in the agents' direction.   
  
The agent on the left looked at his counterpart and raised his eyebrows. The other sighed and spoke up: "Sorry, ma'am. FAA regulations dictate that we cannot recall a flight once it has left the gate."  
  
"But it hasn't left the gate. It's just sitting there. Put the jetway back and we can get on." Lola set her briefcase on the ground and crossed her arms.  
  
Both agents looked at each other again and rolled their eyes. This time the one on the left spoke: "Once the jetway has been disengaged, the flight has technically left the gate, ma'am. But if you see the agents at the counter, I'm sure they can assist you."  
  
Lola just shook her head at the two agents. "No, no, no. You just need to put the jetway back ...."  
  
"Uh, Lola. Take a look," Darien nodded his head toward the gate's large glass window and pointed to a plane making its way out into the taxi line, "I think that's our flight on the end there."  
  
"Damn, damn, damn." Lola turned back to the two gate agents. "When's the next flight to L.A.?"  
  
"If you'll check with the counter agents, ma'am. ..."  
  
"Yeah, I know, they'll be able to assist me. I hope to hell somebody can, 'cuz I've got a client waiting at home that doesn't like to be disappointed." She turned on her heel and marched over to the gate counter. Darien sighed as he picked up their bags and wondered just when he'd become the designated sky cap in this impromptu partnership.  
  
He could tell the news wasn't good before he even reached the counter. Lola was shaking her head again and repeating, "No, no, no." Apparently a complete refusal to accept the truth was her version of arguing.  
  
"What's wrong?" He stepped next to her and dropped the bags between them.  
  
"The next flight isn't till this evening ...." She turned to him and gestured wearily with her hands.  
  
"Well, no problem. I'm sure we can find something to occupy our time ...." He gave her the same sly grin from their meeting the day before. This time, however, it was not returned.  
  
"It's full," she said through clenched teeth as her lips resolved themselves into a thin, straight line.  
  
"What?"  
  
"This evening's flight is sold out, sir," the counter agent smoothly cut in. "The next available flight we can accommodate you on is tomorrow morning."  
  
Lola breathlessly delivered the coup de gras. "And even that's on a standby basis ...."  
  
"Wait, wait." Darien held out his hands in a stop motion, turning to the counter agent. "So basically, you can't get us on a flight back to L.A. until tomorrow morning and even then you can't guarantee it?"  
  
If anything the agent's Stepford smile grew even wider. "We'll do our best to accommodate you at that time."  
  
"OK, that's no good. Can't you get us on another airline or something?"  
  
"Well, sir, you are welcome to investigate other carriers' offerings, if you so choose. However, since we technically could have accommodated you on your assigned flight had you arrived on time, the best we can offer is stand-by status on tomorrow morning's flight. But rest assured, we will do our best to ...."  
  
"Accommodate us at that time. Yeah, right, I got that part, sister." He turned to say something to Lola, but she had already grabbed her duffel and was dragging it towards the escalator. He snatched his own bag and dashed after her. "Hey, hey! Where the heck are you going?"  
  
She continued towards the escalator, pulling at her duffel like an ox at a plow. "Look, I don't know about you, but I have absolutely no intention of wasting another day waiting for another damned plane. There are other modes of transportation, you know."  
  
"So what? What are you going to do? Walk back?"  
  
"No, Sherlock. I'm going to *drive* back. I'm going to rent a car and hit the road. And if I never see Sacramento Metropolitan Airport again, it will be far too soon." With a loud grunt, she heaved her duffel onto the first step of the escalator and stepped after it.  
  
"Drive back? That's what -- something like a 10-hour trip?" Darien considered 10 hours in a car. Not what he would normally have called a pleasure drive. But 10 hours in a car with Lola? Now that could have some rewards. He'd almost lost sight of her head descending with the escalator before he shook himself into action. Jumping onto the escalator, he called after her, "That's a *great* idea! We can split the driving."  
  
She reached the bottom of the escalator and stepped over her bag. "Oh, no, Ray. It's been swell, but our paths part here. Frankly, I don't think we travel well together." She picked up the strap again and began to tug at her bag.  
  
Darien hurried down after her, taking the steps two at a time. "Look, look," he said, "I know it's been a rough morning, but really, it just makes sense. I mean, you're going to San Diego, I'm going to San Diego. Think of all the fuel we'll save by carpooling. You have to agree for the sake of the environment, if nothing else." He gently removed her duffel strap from her hands. "Besides, what are you going to do without your own personal bell hop, huh?"  
  
Lola threw up her hands in surrender. "Alright, Ray, alright, you sold me. Let's get a car and blow this popsicle stand."  
  
"Uhm, just give me a minute to call my, ah, office and we'll be ready to make tracks, OK?" He hooked a thumb in the direction of the public telephones.  
  
Lola nodded and pulled a cell phone from her briefcase. "Good idea. I need to do the same."  
  
"Right. I'll meet you back here when I'm done and we'll go snag a Rent-A-Wreck."  
  
"Rent-A-Wreck? What's wrong with Hertz? They have great cars, GPS systems and curbside assistance." She stood facing him with a smug little smile on her lips.  
  
"Oh, please, why should we stand in line at Hertz to get a run-of-the-mill sedan," Darien waved his hand at the queue of people waiting at the Hertz counter, "when we can walk right up to Rent-A-Wreck and drive away a classic? They have *great* cars with plenty of room to stretch out in and uh, nice, big back seats." He waggled his eyebrows at her as he said the last part.  
  
"OK, Legs, you want Rent-A-Wreck, you got Rent-A-Wreck. Let's just get this show on the road as quickly as possible, alright?"  
  
Darien made a movement towards the public phones, stopped, then leaned over to her with a mischievous grin. "It was the big back seat that got to you, wasn't it? I mean, chicks love big back seats. Admit it."  
  
"Yeah, well, this chick digs sports cars." She laughed and shooed him towards the phone. "Just make your call, Ray, so we can get going."  
  
"Sports cars?" He held his back and groaned. "Ouch." Giving her a parting wink, he sauntered over to the nearest available phone. She just shook her head and began to dial.  
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"So what do I tell the Fat Man? Are you gonna catch the flight tomorrow or what?" Hobbes sounded his usual mixture of confused and disgruntled at Darien's stream-of-consciousness travelogue.  
  
"No, man, I'm driving back."  
  
"Driving back? That's like, what, 10, 10 1/2 hours behind the wheel? Why not just wait it out at the hotel and take the morning flight back? All of a sudden you're in such a rush to get here?" Hobbes paused with a suppressed gasp. Darien pictured his partner's eyes widen in misunderstanding. "Oh, man, you don't need a shot, do you?"  
  
"No, no, I'm good," Darien automatically checked his tattoo in spite of himself. "It's a beautiful day for driving, alright? Besides, I got someone to split the wheel time with me."  
  
"Oh, you do, do you?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"And tell me, oh friendly one, this person wouldn't happen to be someone of the female persuasion, would she?"  
  
"Hobbes, man, don't go there. She's just a chick I met on the plane. We're splitting a car ride. That's it."  
  
"That's it, huh?"  
  
"Yeah, that's it."  
  
"Well, somehow, my friend, I don't think that's it. Because somehow I don't see you sitting in a car for 10 hours instead of in a hotel lounge just for some chick. She's got to be pretty special to turn you into a road warrior. Now, what's her name?"  
  
"Trust me, Hobbes, she's just a chick," Darien shook his head at Hobbes' insistence on diving straight for the gutter every time there was a woman involved. "And her name is Lola."  
  
"Lola, huh? Lovely Lola, yeah, that's nice. Now, what's her last name?"  
  
"Gerot, why?" Darien was puzzled by the question momentarily, then understanding dawned. "Oh, you are not going to run ...."  
  
"A background check on her? Why no, I'm not. Monroe is. SOP, my friend."  
  
"Aw, c'mon, man. I told you, she's just a *chick*. She makes wedding cakes for Christ's sake."  
  
"Dammit, Fawkes, when are you going to start thinking like an agent? The deadliest of enemies can come in the most innocent of disguises. I thought you would have learned that by now. After all, may I point out that the last of your 'Love Connections' was not exactly a match made in heaven."  
  
'Wrong move, buddy,' Darien thought. At Hobbes' veiled reference to Allianora, Darien's tone hardened. "I told you, she's just a chick I'm sharing a car with. I haven't even told her my real name or what I really do for a living. Satisfied?"  
  
"No, as a matter of fact, I'm not. And I won't be until your butt is back here where I can keep an eye on it," Hobbes paused again and this time Darien could almost hear the wheels of paranoia spinning in his partner's head. "Alright, now listen up: Don't take I-5 back. That's the logical route and if something is up, it's sure to be watched. Instead, take the back door down Route 99. Now have a good trip and check in after an hour for the results of the background check."  
  
"Fine. But do me a favor and at least have Eberts handle the check?"  
  
"No can do, my friend. The little weasel is on vacation until tomorrow -- apparently just like you. I, on the other hand, am stuck here with the Fat Man and Monroe working my tail off while you two gallivant all over the sunny state of California. I'll talk to you in an hour. Oh, and Fawkes ..."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Be sure to give lusty Lola a big smooch for me."  
  
"Later, Hobbes."  
  
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Clyde hung up the phone next to Darien's and stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he considered his options. He did not want to be the one to tell Stark that Fawkes wasn't going to be there when the plane landed in L.A. Then again, he knew better than to try and keep something like this from Stark for too long. The man liked his information delivered on a timely basis.   
  
The portly freelance agent looked around the terminal, trying to locate where his Chrysalis partner had gone. He wondered briefly if the other agent had used the time to apprise Stark of the situation while he had been eavesdropping on Fawkes. 'Only one way to find out.' He picked up the phone again and dialed. Stark answered almost immediately.  
  
"Yeah, Stark, it's me. There's been a change in plans ...."  
  
"Yes, I know. Your partner's already checked in and has the car situation handled. Just stay close to Fawkes and don't lose him whatever you do. When the time is right, your partner will advise us of an appropriate pick-up location."  
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Darien looked at his watch. They'd been on the road for just over an hour and a half, which meant Hobbes had been ballistic for 30 minutes now. A part of him bristled at the thought of having to check in at the Agency, at them thinking nothing of running a background check on Lola. Then again, he really didn't want the little tiger's head to explode waiting for him to call. Darien sighed, slowed down and took the rest stop exit.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"I'm, ah, hungry. I just thought, you know, we'd take a little pit stop and maybe catch some fries." He pulled into a parking space in front of the low concrete building.  
  
"You're hungry? You can't be hungry. We just had breakfast a couple of hours ago."  
  
"I'm a growing boy. Besides, I need to make a call to my, ah, office." He opened the car door and got out. She followed suit, leaning against the car and crossing her arms.  
  
"You just called them a little over an hour ago."   
  
"What can I say? I guess I'm just integral to the organization." He looked over at her forlornly under raised brows.  
  
"Oh for the love of god. Alright, make your phone call, get your fries. I guess I'll just use the ladies' room. But this is it. We don't stop again until we're at least halfway there, OK?"  
  
"OK."  
  
"And get me a bottle of water, would you?" She headed towards the women's lounge.  
  
"Sure," he said, shaking his head while walking away. 'Just like a chick.'  
  
Darien entered the rest stop and spied the row of public phones. A number of them were already in use, so he picked the one on the far side of the wall and dialed Hobbes' number.  
  
"Fawkes, this better frickin' be you!"  
  
"What up, Bobby?"  
  
"Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to check in over 30 minutes ago."  
  
"Relax, Hobbes. We've been on the road. This is the first rest area I've seen to stop at."  
  
Hobbes snorted. "Yeah, that's because you been looking at the scenery in the front seat next to you, there, loverboy."  
  
"Would you stop it with that? You wanted me to call, so I'm calling. What happened with the background check?"  
  
"She's clean."  
  
"See, I told you there was nothing to worry about."  
  
"Oh, no. There's something to worry about. She's clean. She's *too* clean, my friend."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Both Monroe and I agree: there's got to be something hinky about anybody who's this squeaky clean."  
  
"Wow. The power of your logic underwhelms me."  
  
"That's just fine, Mr. Doubting Thomas. Go ahead, make fun. But you mark my words: something is *not* right here, my friend. Broken aircraft, missed flights. I smell trouble."  
  
"That's not trouble, Hobbes, that's your deodorant."  
  
"Ha ha. Just keep your eyes open, Romeo, OK? 'Cuz your little Juliet there could be Lady MacBeth in disguise."  
  
"How literate of you. You been dipping into my Cliff Notes collection while I'm gone?"  
  
"Hey, I gotta read something while I'm sitting with your rat. I mean, you don't really expect me to just feed the little guy and leave him all alone again, do you?"  
  
"Why, Hobbesy, you do care."  
  
"That's all I'm saying, my friend, that's all I'm saying."  
  
"Later, man."  
  
"Later, Fawkes. And call me when you get home tonight."   
  
Darien hung up the phone and cruised over to the take-out counter, quickly grabbing her water and his fries. He hurried out to the car, but Lola was already standing there waiting for him. He tossed her the water bottle over the car roof and she caught it easily.   
  
"Can we please go now?"  
  
"Absolutely. Let's rock and roll."   
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He pulled out onto the highway. Once they were comfortably driving with traffic, he turned his attention to his French fries. Leaving one hand on the wheel, he held out the cardboard container to her with the other. "Hey, can you do me a favor and put some salt on these?"  
  
"Uhm, sure," she said looking around on the seat for the little salt packs. She found one and sprinkled some on his fries until he said, "Enough." Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her tossing some of the salt over her shoulder.  
  
"Oh, man, Hobbesy would love you."  
  
"Hobbesy?" She opened her water bottle and took a swig.  
  
"Yeah, Hobbes. He's, ah, my partner."  
  
"Oh, in that security firm you work for? Your partner, huh? I didn't realize you were one of the owners."  
  
"Uhm, yeah, we, ah, actually have a couple of guys who kinda run it for us, but Hobbes and me, we do all the real work."  
  
"You never told me how you got into the security field in the first place. I mean, judging from the way you got into that hotel room back there, you certainly know your way around locks."  
  
He nodded, pursed his lips around a fry. "Yeah, I guess you could say that." He chewed then swallowed, weighing his options the whole time and finally coming up with what he thought was going to be a winning mixture of fact and fiction. "You see, I used to be a thief."  
  
"You used to be a thief?" She looked at him out of the corner of her raised eyes.  
  
"Yeah, as in, I'm an ex-thief now." He gave her a wincing smile.  
  
"Ah hah." She gave one slow nod.  
  
"Anyway, I got caught and went to prison for a bit. My brother arranged for me to get a pardon and when I got out, he was kinda responsible for me hooking up with Hobbes. Hobbes had been in the, ah, security field for years and well, we found that we made a really good team together. I mean, you know, his security experience and my particular knowledge of criminal activities sort of complemented each other. And so there you are, Hobbes and me, the 'Super Friends' of security."  
  
"Hmmmm." She sat there with her brows knit together.  
  
He waited a bit, hoping for one of her smart remarks. When it didn't come, he frowned and knit his own brows. "You're very quiet. I shouldn't have told you, should I?"  
  
"Huh?" She looked over at him and blinked.  
  
"About my being a thief. I shouldn't have told you. I don't normally tell people but for some reason I just thought ...." He shrugged his shoulders absently.  
  
"Oh, no, no." She shook her head at him and smiled. "That doesn't bother me. It's just that I'm torn really."  
  
"Torn?" Curiosity creased his forehead.  
  
"Between trying to decide what your brother's like and what your partner's like. I mean, you're kind of a unique guy, Ray, and I'm just having a hard time picturing you with friends and family." She turned away from him and leaned her head against the window. "Besides, everyone's done something that they're not proud of in their lives, sometimes just to survive. Show me someone who says they haven't and I'll show you a fool or a hypocrite."  
  
"So what's yours?"  
  
"My what?"  
  
"Your secret. I mean, since we're playing truth or dare here and all ..."  
  
"Oh, that. It's pretty mundane, actually. I used to be a stripper. Big whoop." She rolled her eyes and twirled her index finger in the air.  
  
"A stripper, huh?" He tried to keep his tone blasé, but the mental picture he'd just been presented with had his brain, among other things, working overtime. "You don't seem like the type."  
  
"And what type would that be? Starving, desperate, homeless? Because at one point in my life I was all of those things. Stripping made me good money, fast. Eventually it even enabled me to open my shop, start my own business. Now it's not something I'm dying to put on my resume, but I refuse to be ashamed of it."  
  
"I'm down with that, sister."  
  
"Hey, Ray?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Can I have a fry?"  
  
He laughed and held the cardboard container out to her. She grabbed a fistful and sat there, munching on fries and fiddling with the radio. Darien put the fries on the seat between them, rolled his window down and stuck his left arm out into the sunshine. It certainly was a beautiful day for driving.  
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They made good time since the roads were fairly clear and Darien wasn't exactly a stickler for the speed limit. Lola had offered to take the wheel once or twice, but he actually got into the rhythm of driving and didn't want to stop to change seats. They'd hit another rest area for more food, gas, and a quick bathroom break, but that had been the only stop they'd made since the morning.  
  
They were a little more than half-way through their trip -- just outside of Bakersfield, in fact -- when Darien noticed the car's engine temperature starting to go up. He fretted silently as the dashboard gauge steadily rose. Lola was napping and he didn't want to alarm her, but he sure as heck didn't want to break down between exits on Route 99. Silently, he moved over to the right lane and took the next exit. Apparently they were headed to a lovely little metropolis named Delano.  
  
Lola shook herself awake as she felt the car slow. She rubbed her eyes and ran a hand through her hair. "You can't possibly be hungry again. You ate three tacos, a quesadilla, and a banana split for lunch."  
  
He laughed nervously. "Ah, no, not me. The car. We need gas." Well, technically it was true; the fuel gauge was heading south towards empty. And if he happened to ask the gas station attendant to check the radiator while they were stopped, well, he was only being cautious, right?  
  
"Hmmm, guess we kind of have to feed the car." At that moment, with her sleepy eyes and lazy smile, she reminded him of nothing so much as a cat sunning itself.  
  
He pulled into the first gas station with a garage that he saw. Lola got out and stretched her legs while he swiped his VISA card in the pump and set the hose to fill the gas tank. Then he went in search of the mechanic, ostensibly to get the key to the men's room.  
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"Looks like you got yourself a hole in the radiator. I can patch it, but it ain't gonna be ready until the morning." Darien and the mechanic stood in the station's single garage bay looking under the rental car's hood.  
  
"Morning, huh?" Darien ran a hand through his hair, then scratched his chin. "No way you can get it fixed any sooner?"  
  
"'Fraid not, son. I can patch it before I close for the day, but it's just gonna take time for that patch to set. Now it may be ready at 3 a.m., but I ain't gonna be here to give you the keys."  
  
"Alright, tomorrow morning it is then. What's the earliest we can pick it up?"   
  
"We open at 8:30. You'll need to pay at least half in advance." The mechanic wiped a bit of grease from his hands with an old rag and moved into the station's office.  
  
"Great." Darien followed the man, waving his lone credit card. "Here ya go."  
  
"Thanks." The mechanic swiped Darien's card through the machine and waited for it to spit out a receipt. "It is odd, though."  
  
"What do you mean, 'odd'?"  
  
"Well, look at that engine. It's beautiful, clean as a whistle, obviously well cared for." The mechanic gestured at the engine laid out under the car's open hood through the garage doorway.  
  
Darien looked at the engine, remembered Hobbes' comment about cleanliness and hinkiness. "So what? What are you saying, that somebody purposely put a hole in our radiator?"  
  
"Don't know, can't tell. Just seems to me that whoever's been looking after this car wouldn't have forgotten to check the radiator for holes." The mechanic shrugged and gave Darien his receipt, then ran out to fill a car waiting at the station's pumps.  
  
Darien stood there, staring at the engine. He remembered Lola standing alone by the car at the rest stop. Could she have ...? He shook his head. No. No, he was not going to let Hobbes' paranoia get to him. He looked at Lola waiting outside the garage for him to come and translate mechanic-speak for her. Nope, no, no way. She was just a chick. He looked at her again, taking the time to begin at her toes and work his way up. A really nice chick. He watched her as she paced in an impatient circle around their bags. Make that a really nice chick who was definitely not going to like what he was about to tell her. Cringing, Darien walked out to deliver the bad news.  
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"They can't fix it till morning. Looks like we're going to be having dinner together again this evening." Darien tried to sweeten the medicine with his most charming smile.  
  
Lola, still annoyed that he hadn't told her the real reason for their detour, wasn't swallowing it. "Can't fix it till morning! Can't we just call the rental agency and have them drop us off another car?"  
  
At her tone, his smile went from charming to sardonic. "It's a Rent-A-Wreck, darlin', with the emphasis on the wreck. I don't think they offer valet service."   
  
"Oh great. I say 'let's rent from Hertz,' he says, 'oh no, let's go to Rent-A-Wreck. They have *great* cars.' Now I'm hearing that the emphasis is on the wreck. Hertz has curbside assistance, you know!" Her hands flailed about as she worked up a good head of steam.  
  
"Fine, you want me to say you were right and I was wrong," Darien threw up his own hands. "Fine. You were right. But that's not going to get us to San Diego any faster."  
  
"Who the hell are you? The Prince of Frickin' Darkness?" She raised both her voice and her chin as she squared off with him. "Ever since I've met you it's been nothing but bad aircraft, missed flights and now the car radiator blows up ...."  
  
He stood his ground as he asked rhetorically, "Oh, and that's all my fault?"   
  
"I don't know. What I do know is that I have cakes to make, a business to run and I can't afford to be out here playing 'Priscilla, Queen of the Desert' with you!"  
  
"Wow, can your voice get *any* higher? 'Cuz I think there are some dogs in the next county over that can't hear you yet."  
  
She sighed and shook her head. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for yelling at you. I'm sorry for raising my voice. But I'm tired, I'm stressed and I just quit smoking two days ago. So cut me some slack, Jack, OK?"  
  
Darien let out a frustrated groan, stuck his hands in his pocket, bit his tongue. "Tell you what: let's go over to the hotel down the street here. We'll get a couple of rooms, freshen up, maybe have some dinner, what do you say? Then we can get a good night's sleep and start out bright and early in the morning."  
  
She grabbed her briefcase and started at a brisk clip towards the almost tasteful sign proclaiming the site of the Shilo Inn. "Alright. I guess I really don't have much choice in the matter, now do I?"  
  
He watched her retreating back, decided it had to be great to be a chick, hoisted her duffel and his own bag, then started after her. "Hey, I think it's great that you quit smoking. I've never smoked myself but I've heard it's a bitch to quit."  
  
"You don't know the half of it. I swear, when I'm in the middle of a nicotine fit, I turn into a raging psycho. I mean, I can see myself yelling at people and I just can't stop it."  
  
"I hear you, sister, I hear you."  
  
TBC 


	3. Part 3: Sweet Surrender, NC-17

AUTHOR'S NOTE: THIS VERSION OF PART 3 CARRIES AN NC-17 RATING. SO IF YOU'RE UNDERAGE OR DON'T CARE TO INDULGE, PLEASE READ THE ALTERNATE PG-13 VERSION OF THIS PART, WHICH WILL FOLLOW IN A SEPARATE POST.  
  
Part 3 -- Sweet Surrender  
  
There's an old saying: "A man only chases a woman until she catches him." Frankly, I wasn't sure anymore who was the fox and who was the hound, but it was definitely turning out to be a hell of a chase. Problem was the finish line was nowhere in sight.  
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The lobby of the Shilo Inn was decorated in what Darien could only describe as 'neo-quaint'. Lots of heavy colonial furniture, copper pots and a hearth that looked like it was straight out of Ye Olde Yankee Shoppe. Unfortunately, this was California. Didn't these people know that they were settled by the Spanish?  
  
Lola was looking around, taking it all in beneath raised eyebrows and a barely suppressed smirk. He smirked back, "Think somebody 'round here needs a history lesson?"  
  
Her responding snort greeted the desk clerk full in the face. She tried to speak, lapsed into a giggle fit, tried to speak again.  
  
"Jeez, calm down, would you? Even I didn't think it was that funny," he told her out of the side of his mouth.  
  
"It's just so ... so ... so ... *wrong*," she replied between laughs. "Anachronistically speaking, of course."  
  
"Of course," he repeated, rolling his eyes at her. Darien turned to the desk clerk, who was watching their exchange, his face smoothed by a long-suffering mask of imperturbability. "Ah, we're gonna be needing a couple of rooms for the night, here."  
  
"Certainly, sir," came back the crisp response. "Would you like the side of the building with the view?"  
  
Darien looked at the clerk. As far as he could tell, the inn was bordered by the highway on one side and the parking lot on the other. "OK, I gotta ask. What view?"  
  
"Of the courtyard, sir." The clerk's voice held all the excitement of a laundromat manager extolling the virtues of his newest drier. "We have some lovely rooms overlooking the pool deck and whirlpool."  
  
It was Darien's turn to snort. "Yeah. Fine. Whatever."  
  
"I'll need to take a card imprint for each of the rooms." The clerk busied himself with the registration forms, unruffled by Darien's less than eloquent answer.  
  
Darien fished his card out of his wallet, while Lola began dumping the contents of her purse all over the counter. By the time the clerk had finished swiping Darien's card and given him his room key, she'd started cursing.  
  
"What's wrong?" he asked, returning his credit card to his wallet and putting his key in his back pocket.  
  
"I can't find my wallet. I can't believe this. I can't find my *wallet*!" Her voice held the edge of light hysteria.  
  
"Alright, alright, calm down there," he put a hand on her shoulder. "Just think for a second. Where was the last place you had it?"  
  
"Oh, well, that's just a great question. If I knew where I'd had it last, I wouldn't have ...," she shrugged away from his hand, then gave a quick start. "Oh, wait, the rest stop! That's where I had it! The rest stop! I was fixing my make up and I had to take my wallet out of my bag to get my make-up kit. You're a genius!" She jumped up on tiptoe, pecked him on the cheek, then began throwing her stuff back into her purse. "We'll just have to go back and get it," she added matter-of-factly.  
  
Darien stood, looking at her busily packing, and hopelessly tried to stem the crimson tide flowing over his face and neck. "Ah ... uhm ... well ... gee ... ah, Lola," Darien stammered, "That rest stop's like three hours away."   
  
"Yeah, so? What are you saying, you don't want to drive back and get it? *I'd* go back if it were your wallet." She blinked at him, appalled at his breech of etiquette. "I mean after all, I *did* go back after your *hair gel*, now didn't I? And need I remind you, that if it wasn't for that mop of yours, we wouldn't be in this mess...."  
  
Her apparent cluelessness as to the flaw in her plan helped him regain control of his facial hue. Clearly he was going to have to spell it out for her. "That's not the point. Even if I did think that your wallet would still be in the *public* bathroom, at the *highway* rest stop, *six* hours after you left it there, we'd still need a *car* to get there, no?" He gestured in the general direction of the garage where they'd left the car to be fixed.  
  
Her expression sank like the Titanic. "Oh, crap, that's right." He couldn't help but smile at hearing his catchphrase come out of her mouth; she put the heel of one hand to her forehead. "Well, hell, what am I supposed to do now? All my credit cards and money were in my wallet." She stared down at the floor for a moment, bit her lip, looked up at him with a grimace. "I don't suppose you could lend me the money for a room ...?"  
  
He did a quick bit of mental accounting. Very quick, in fact, since he had the grand sum of $83.67 to his name and one soon-to-be-maxed-out Visa card in his wallet. "Look, Lola, I would love to but I can't. I mean, along with my room, I've still got to pay for the rest of the car repair. Not to mention dinner tonight, breakfast tomorrow and gas for the trip home. There's just no way. The best I can offer...," he waved his hands absently at the ceiling, "I mean, the only solution I can think of ...." He trailed off, hoping she would jump in before he would have to actually voice the suggestion. She just stood there looking blankly at him, arms folded, mouth hanging open.  
  
The desk clerk startled them both out of their staring contest by clearing his throat. He blandly held out a second key to Darien's room. Setting her jaw, she walked over and snatched it from his hand.  
  
"Is there a place where we can get dinner?" she managed to grit out.  
  
The clerk pointed across the lobby at the entrance to what appeared to be a glorified charcoal pit. "We have a very good Italian restaurant and lounge. If you dine before six, you can take advantage of their early bird specials."  
  
Lola swung her eyes to the red, white and green striped awning that proclaimed the name of the place as 'Goomba's', then over at Darien. "Tres elegant," was her only comment.  
  
"Hey, don't knock it. At least it's a step above last night's joint, right?" It was actually a couple notches above most of the places he usually frequented, but he was damned if he was going to tell her that Pancho's Taco Bar was his normal dining establishment.  
  
She pulled a wearied scowl, grabbed her briefcase and headed towards the glass doors leading to the courtyard. "Great. My dining standard has just become the burger barn at the Vagabond Inn. Now I can die happy."  
  
Darien sighed and picked up the luggage. As much as he admired her rear view, watching it walking away from him was getting old. He started up the stairs, following her yet again. "Look, let's just get up to the room so I can drop these damn bags and take a shower."  
  
She stopped in the middle of the stairs and turned to face him. "You know, if you didn't want to carry my bag anymore, all you had to do was say so! I told you I'd carry it. I do it all the time." She stomped down the few steps to meet him on his way up.  
  
"No, no, it's fine. I've got it." Under his breath he muttered, "Just like a chick. Offer to do it after you've already got it handled."  
  
"What?" Her tone could have cut diamonds.  
  
"Ah, nothing." He was a bit chagrinned that she'd caught that comment.  
  
"No, you said something. I heard you."  
  
"Well, if you heard me, then why are you asking?" He was tired, more than a little aggravated and at that moment, the last thing he wanted was to have a blow out on the stairs in the middle of some mediocre motel. But if she really wanted a fight, he wasn't going to deny her one.  
  
She narrowed her eyes at him, held out her hand expectantly. "Look, do you want me to carry that duffel or not?"  
  
"Fine." He dropped the strap into her waiting hand, the weight of the duffel almost tipping her over onto the bottom step. He simply climbed past her and remarked, "This particular bell hop's going to take a shower."  
  
"Fine," she called after him. The last thing he heard as he stepped into their room was the sound of her duffel bumping up the stairs one step at a time.  
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Darien emerged from the shower his mind and his mood invigorated. He spiked his hair with some fresh gel and threw on a clean pair of pants and a t-shirt. He stepped out of the bathroom with a witty remark on his lips about chicks not being the only ones who took forever in the bath when he caught sight of Lola.   
  
At some point during his shower, she'd managed to drag her duffel into the room and dump it on the floor. Now, she was sketching again, propped on the bed, her pencils softly scratching the paper as they slid over the page. Not wanting to break the concentration plainly evident on her face, he simply leaned back against the wall, folded his arms and watched her for a few moments.  
  
She must have felt his eyes on her because she stopped sketching and put down her things. Rising from the bed, she made a show out of fluffing the pillows against the heavy, dark, ornate headboard of the queen-size bed that dominated the small room. "Wouldn't want you to think I was claiming the bed," she shot at him, "After all, isn't that another thing we 'chicks' do? Always take the bed?"  
  
"Look, Lola, do you think we could maybe call a cease fire here for a while?" He backed up his suggestion with his hurt puppy face, knowing full well the effect it had on most women.  
  
And, like butter, she melted. "Well, I suppose, at least through dinner," she replied sulkily.  
  
"That's a girl," he coached her. "C'mon, go take a quick shower and we'll go get something to eat, OK?"  
  
"OK." She fished in her duffel for some clean clothes and headed for the bathroom.  
  
"And hurry up," he yelled after her, then couldn't help but add, "'Cuz chicks always take too long in the bathroom." He ducked just in time to avoid the travel-size soap that came sailing out of the doorway at him.  
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Goomba's as it turned out, actually had quite good food, despite the regrettable 'Lady and the Tramp' décor. He'd eaten a caesar salad, a basket of garlic bread and a healthy slab of the house's special lasagna, before polishing off the remainder of her eggplant parmigiana over linguini.   
  
"What are you? A bottomless pit? I swear, I'm gaining weight just watching you eat." She laughed as he scanned the dessert menu while they waited for their coffee. Apparently half a bottle of red wine had helped smooth her ruffled feathers.  
  
He gave her a mellow smile in return. "What can I say? I like to eat ... among other things." OK, so he wasn't completely unaffected by the wine himself. She pulled a mock scowl and wagged a finger at him. At that moment, she looked like one of those sexy schoolmarm types that were sometimes featured in 'men's' magazines. He was tempted to tell her so, but didn't want to push his luck. They'd finally reached detente again and he was loath to return to open hostilities. Instead, he settled on asking her about her work.  
  
"What, what's it like, what you do? I mean, I was watching you upstairs with your pad and your pencils. You were a million miles away, lost in what you were drawing. What's it like to do that? To see something in your mind and then be able to capture it on paper?"  
  
"Good lord, Ray, I don't know. I can't explain it. Sometimes it just comes to me; it just pops right into my mind. I can see it clear as day and it's just a matter of copying it out onto the paper. Kinda like tracing a picture from a magazine, you know? Then other times, I'm at a loss, I haven't got a clue." She looked away from him, over to the far wall of the restaurant, drew a breath, only to exhale a moment later and close her eyes. "But then I put a line down on the paper and another one just seems to attach itself and then another again and again, and I'm just as surprised as anyone else is by the end result." She opened her eyes again, focused on him. "I think those are my favorites, my best work really. Where there's no conscious thought involved, it just sort of *happens*.  
  
"It's always been like that. I've loved drawing ever since I was a child. My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was 10. She was dead by the time I was 11. Drawing was a way to escape, I guess. I mean, in real life, I had to watch my mom get sick and wither away. Then, after she died, I had to take care of my dad and Gwen. I took over cooking and cleaning and making sure Gwen got her homework done and stuff, so my dad didn't have to worry about it. Drawing took me away from all that, let me be whatever I wanted, do whatever I wanted, see whatever I wanted. Do you know what it is to want, to need to escape like that?" She took a drink of water and waited for his answer, looking at him from under her eyelashes.   
  
Her story had a familiar ring for Darien; she wasn't the first female he'd known who'd turned to art to help her through a traumatic childhood experience. Jessica Semplar had been one of his earliest cases with the Agency. The child had become a voluntary mute after witnessing the assassination of a visiting foreign dignitary. When it was discovered the only person she'd speak to was her invisible friend, Ralph, Darien had been ordered to assume Ralph's identity. Jessica had been quite the little artist; she'd even been good enough that Hobbes had used one of her paintings to triangulate the position of the assassin's shot. But like most of the women in Darien's life, Jessica had left him behind. He tried to assuage the pain that still sprang up fresh when he thought of her, rationalizing that it wasn't Darien the man that Jessica had outgrown, but Ralph, her imaginary friend.   
  
Now he pictured Lola as a young girl like Jessica, perhaps with one long, dark braid down her back and wearing a white painter's smock with a little water color palette at the ready. He pictured himself, bangs in his eyes, drill in his hand, leaning over a tricky lock in Liz's apartment. Oh yes, he understood the need to escape all too well. "Yeah. I think I do."  
  
She locked eyes with him then, tilting her head one way, then the other. "How? How do you know?"  
  
"My mom died when I was seven, two years after my dad took off for parts unknown. After that, there wasn't exactly a custody struggle for my older brother, Kevin, and me so we got shipped off to the relatives with the least objections, my Aunt Celia and Uncle Peter. They were an older couple that didn't have any children of their own and they did their best, but they weren't exactly June and Wally Cleaver, you know?  
  
"As we grew up, Kevin got more and more into science. Eventually he earned like three PHDs and a Nobel Prize or something. Me, I got more and more into trouble and wound up with an advanced degree in cat burglary, which earned me a stay or two in assorted state correctional facilities. You know the rest: my brother got me out, I paired up with Hobbes and here I am, sitting with you."  
  
"Jesus, what a detached resume. Tell me, don't you ever regret the choices you've made, the things you've lost?"  
  
Darien thought about it. Yeah, he'd had some tough turns in life, some out of his hands, some of his own making. But he'd learned early on that you just had to play the hand dealt. Besides, did she really expect him to sit there in a room full of strangers and admit between coffee and cheesecake that he still had nightmares about losing those he loved? That all he had to do was close his eyes to hear his mother's laugh or that last horrible time Kevin had called his name? He willed his tone to harden and his face to take on the wise guy exterior he'd cultivated in prison. "Well, let's just say I'm not someone to cry over spilled milk, OK?"  
  
"Where's Kevin now?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Your brother? Is he near you in San Diego? I mean, my sister is back east and I don't get to see her that often ...."  
  
"He's dead." He blurted it out with a sense of fatigued annoyance that came from having had to repeat the same phrase over and over for more than a year. And he'd have to repeat it for the rest of his life, whenever anybody asked about his brother. It was like having a wound that was never allowed to heal, just reopened every so often so it could spill fresh blood.  
  
Her hands flew to her face. "What?"  
  
"He was, ah, murdered, shot ...." His voice trailed off to a whisper as he took a sip of his drink to wet his suddenly arid throat.  
  
"My god. You really are alone, aren't you?" She reached out and touched his cheek. He put his hand over hers and gave a soft, sad smile.  
  
"No, not really. I have Hobbes and other friends where I work." To his surprise, he really meant it. He looked her straight in the eye, held her gaze. "Besides, right now I'm sitting here having dinner with the prettiest girl in the place."  
  
She flushed and pulled her hand away from his. Looking down, she gathered her things. "I'm sorry. You know what? I, uhm, don't feel so hot." She rose from the table and started backing away. "I'm just, ah, gonna head up to the room and lie down, OK? OK. Bye." Before he could respond, she turned and dashed out of the restaurant as unobtrusively as possible.  
  
He sat stunned for a moment, then pulled some bills from his wallet, dropped them on the table and took off after her.   
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He caught up with her just as she was crossing the pool area. "Hey, Lola, wait!" He slowed as he neared her, reaching out to grab her shoulder and turn her to him. "Listen, if I said or did anything back there to upset you, I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."  
  
"No, Ray, no. It wasn't you -- it was me." She gave a short, brittle laugh that held a twist of irony.  
  
"You?" He shook his head in confusion. As far as he remembered, she'd behaved perfectly. "What did you do?"  
  
"Nothing yet. But I will. I know I shouldn't but I will," she slid her hand up his arm, from wrist to elbow, elbow to shoulder, stopping finally in a light grip at the back of his neck, twining her fingers in the fringe of his curls there. "Especially if you keep looking at me like that."  
  
"And how am I looking at you?" He took a step closer, trapped her again with his eyes.  
  
She backed up a step, on tiptoe, fingers still in his hair. She stopped when she reached the edge of the pool and had nowhere left to run. He followed, his eyes never leaving hers. "Like a starving man looking at a plate of lamb chops," she breathed out.  
  
He tugged at her free arm, wrapped it around his waist. He brought his other hand around to cup the back of her head, pulling her up even more on tiptoe as he dropped his own down to meet it. "Mmm, lambchops, my favorite." His voice was deep, chocolate, velvet.  
  
"Mine too," she murmured right before all conversation ceased. 'Just like a chick,' was the last coherent thought his brain registered, amused at her blatant need to get the last word in. The rest of his mind was lost in her. In her taste: sweet, spicy, wholesome, just like an oatmeal cookie. In her scent: surrounding him in warm, comfortable memories. In the feel of her: his arms surrounding her, his mouth moving on hers.   
  
He leaned in to deepen the kiss, wanting to taste, smell, feel her more fully. To his disappointment, rather than responding in kind, she began to move back, yet without loosening her grip on him. He was confused until he felt her lose her balance all together and realized that in his enthusiasm, he'd inadvertently knocked her backwards. She was falling ... into the pool ... taking him with her.  
  
They landed with a large splash in the heated water, never breaking the kiss until they were both out of breath. He bobbed, sputtering, to the surface. She came up by the pool ladder and nimbly climbed out. She stood by the edge of the pool, all eyes and dripping hair, looking like a bedraggled Mona Lisa.  
  
He climbed out a moment later. "I, ah, guess we should go and, uhm, change out of these wet things." He gestured up the stairs in the direction of their room. Her only response was a quick nod.  
  
He let her go up the stairs first, enjoying the view her soaking clothes afforded him. When he remembered his own pants were clinging to him, he strategically arranged a shirt tail. She waited silently at the room door. He opened it and they went in.  
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Under the stairs a portly figure emerged from the shadows. Whistling lightly he made his way to the pay phones in the lobby. Dialing the familiar number from memory, he heard the smooth criminal who was his client and temporary boss answer.  
  
"What do you have for me, Clyde?"  
  
"The sabotage went off without a hitch; car's in the garage. We're stopped for the night near Bakersfield. We'll be leaving for San Diego in the morning," Clyde dutifully reported, "I got to admit, that kid you saddled me with is slick."  
  
"My 'kid,' as you like to call my agent, is actually a mature operative with extensive field experience. You'd do best to remember that," Stark's tone was blasé in its menace. There was no need to detail the unspoken threat. "You're doing quite well for hired help, though, Clyde. Keep it up and perhaps we'll have more jobs for you in the future. In the meantime, I'll send a pick-up squad and we'll make the grab in the morning. Until then, make sure you stick to him."  
  
Clyde gave a dry snigger. "Don't worry, Stark. The only way we could get any closer is if one of us slept with him...."  
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Without a word, Lola went straight to the bathroom and shut the door. Darien, figuring the moment lost, stripped off his wet shirt, along with his socks and shoes. He was just pulling out a pair of dry pajama bottoms when he heard the bathroom door open.  
  
Come here," she called. He turned to see her exiting the bathroom with one towel wrapped around her and another spread out across both hands.  
  
He grinned at her, teasing. "Uh, why should I?"  
  
"Because I said so, that's why. Now get your ass over here."  
  
"You are the *bossiest* little thing." He crossed the room to stand in front of the bed, looking down at her face and laughing softly.  
  
"Yeah, well, what's your point? Now give me your head."  
  
"Give you my head?" he repeated with a smirk.  
  
"So I can dry your hair," came the answer, accompanied by a playful pursing of lips and much innocent blinking.  
  
"Ooooh." Grinning, he lowered his head and she wrapped it in the free towel, rubbing briskly to absorb the water. His muffled voice came from under the towel, "You know, the last person I let do this was my mother."  
  
She laughed out loud, then released his head from the towel. "Hmmm, that's really not someone I was hoping to be confused with." She took the towel and began drying his shoulders and chest.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Really."  
  
"I don't think that's going to be a problem."  
  
"Good. Now is there anywhere else that you'd like ... uhm ... dried?" It was her turn to smirk and she did so, cocking an eyebrow and unsuccessfully suppressing a grin.  
  
"Oh, yeah. Just one thing though." He reached out and tugged away the towel wrapping her body. "I want you to use this one." He grabbed her up into his arms and leaned his face down to hers.  
  
"You got it," she said softly, just before knocking him down onto the bed. Giggling, she climbed up and knelt over him. He caught her arms as she reached for his belt buckle, then rolled them over so he was on top.  
  
"Your pants are soaking," she shrieked.  
  
He slid a hand between their bodies, running it up her thigh. "I'm betting they're not the only things that are." She gasped, then moaned as his fingers found the proof of that statement. Sliding his fingers into her core, he began to stroke her with the delicate touch of a master picking a 12-tumbler lock.  
  
"Oh, god, you have the most fabulous fingers," she bit out as she rose to meet his caresses. Her hands ran through his hair, then raced feather light down his back. Her tongue lapped at his neck, grazed his collar bones.  
  
He worked her with his fingers, watching all the while as the delight of each new sensation chased across her face, shivered through her body. This was what he wanted: the intimacy, the physical contact, the *normalcy*. Not the perverseness he'd shared with Allianora nor the chemically induced madness that had overtaken him with Claire. Sure those experiences had been erotic and hell, he'd be the first to admit he had his share of kinks, but when all was said and done the only thing those two experiences had left him with was the feeling of being more of a freak than ever.  
  
Almost as if he'd jinxed himself by thinking about it, he felt the gland making its presence known. No, dammit, he wouldn't allow it. He wanted this, he wanted her, he wanted the ordinary humanity of it. He craved it like he craved the counteragent when he'd gone too long between shots. He grit his teeth, closed his eyes and called upon all the control he'd learned over the last year and a half.   
  
He twirled his fingers inside her and she shuddered, the intensity of the sensation causing her to laugh out loud, her joy sounding sharp and bright as her inner muscles convulsed around his fingers. The sound of it made him acutely aware of the depth of his own desire. Unable to wait any longer, he removed his fingers from her, leaving her groaning and breathless for more. He stood, shucked off his pants and underclothes, then returned to the bed. With a wanton smile, she spread her legs, took him in her hands and guided him home.  
  
He fell into her as a swimmer might dive into the ocean: warmed by the water, swept away by the current. He looked down at her, grinning greedily, and captured her mouth with his own, drinking her in through lips and skin, seeking her essence. She locked her legs around him and met him stroke for stroke, moan for moan, sigh for sigh.   
  
He could feel the Quicksilver tingling at the base of his skull again, knew he wouldn't be able to control it much longer. In desperation, he grabbed the headboard, willed the liquid chill out of his fingers and allowed it to coat the hideous structure. As the headboard vanished, one small part of his mind noted that it was a vast improvement in the room's décor.  
  
Then she was cumming and calling his name, screaming it out in the most incredibly intimate of voices. The sound of it, her movements under him as she cried out to him, sparked his own orgasm. With her cries ringing in his ears, he spilled his seed into her. The fact that the name she cried out was Ray, that the sound of their union was a complete and utter falsehood, added the bitter to the sweetness of his own completion. Then the sensations overtook him and with his own strangled cry, he was done.  
  
They lay still for a few moments, his tall form tumbled on top of her tiny one, until he felt her lightly pushing against him. "Uh, Ray, I can't breathe."  
  
He raised himself up on his elbows and smiled down at her sheepishly. "Sorry." He rolled onto his back, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her with him. She landed on top, coming to rest her chin on his chest.  
  
"S'okay." She grinned lazily at him through half-lidded eyes.  
  
He chuckled at her satisfied expression. "Well, I guess I finally found a way to get the last word in."  
  
She rolled her head on her shoulders like a cat washing itself, kissed him smack dab in the middle of his chest. "Did not."  
  
"Did too." He quickly grabbed her head in his hands, pulling her up for what he intended to be a gentle kiss, but which surprised them both with the intensity of their mutual need.  
  
"Not fair," she managed to get out breathlessly when he released her.  
  
He grinned at her. "Well, you know the old saying about love and war, don't you?"  
  
"Who said this was either?" She lay on her side, head propped in her hand.  
  
"Frankly, I'm thinking it's a little of both." He leisurely traced her profile with his index finger.  
  
"Doesn't matter." She shook her head, made to bite his finger. "Still not fair. As payment, you owe me one story -- about you. Pay up now and make it a good one."  
  
"A story? About me, huh?" He sighed, thought for a moment about the irony of her request. Sure, he had lots of good stories these days -- ones where he even turned out to be the hero -- but none of which he could tell her. He didn't want to have to lie to her though, not now, not anymore than he had to. In this at least, he wanted to give her the truth, to make a present of his honesty. So he settled on one from his childhood, one he'd never shared with anyone.  
  
He turned his face away from her, focused on a corner of the dark room. "I was 12 the first time I, uhm, got caught, uhm, stealing, you know?" He swallowed, closed his eyes. "It was stupid really, just a bunch of my buddies and me out for some thrills. We were only going to break into the junior high, steal some sports stuff, like basketballs. All we were going to do was take 'em, have a midnight game down at the local hoops court and then leave them there. It was really more of a prank than anything else.  
  
"One of the older kids, Benny, he knew how to pick locks and he got us into the school. Man, I was completely in awe of that guy, of the fact that he seemed to have the power to go anywhere he wanted. Anyway, we got into the gym and grabbed all these basketballs, some bats, baseballs, crap like that. We were just running out of the building when one of the neighborhood cop cars swung around the corner and happened to catch us in their headlights.  
  
"Kids that we were, we took off like our lives depended on it. We just dropped everything and ran like crazy. You'd have thought we'd stolen the frickin' Hope diamond the way we beat it out of there," he rolled his eyes and shook his head at the memory. "So we're climbing the fence to get out of the schoolyard and I get to the top and it's all sharp, right? 'Cuz the chain link at my part was all broken and rusty. But me, I don't notice; I just want to get away. So over the top I go and the fence catches my right leg. Damn thing tore my leg open from the knee to the ankle." He pulled the sheet back, showed her the faint white line of scar tissue that ran down his leg. "I landed at the bottom with this huge gash in my leg, bleeding like a stuck pig and all my friends are gone.  
  
"The cops, they found me, took me to the emergency room and called my Aunt Celia and Uncle Peter. I didn't know what was going on; I thought they were gonna cart me off to jail after they'd finished stitching up my leg. So I'm sitting on this gurney in this emergency room, scared shitless, when I see my Uncle Peter coming down the hall. I watch him sort of scanning the open doorways looking for me and then when he finally sees me, he gets the most amazing look on his face. I see him take in all the blood and the stitches and the pain on my face, but on his face ...," Darien stopped, swallowed hard again, "On his face I could see all the love he had for me, all the fear he had of losing me, all the relief now that he knew I was OK. So he walks into the room, comes right up to me. I look up at him with tears in my eyes because I'm just so damn happy that he's there. He looks down at me, still with all this love in his eyes, and he slaps me, hard, right across the face.  
  
"And that was it. The school and the cops didn't press charges; I guess they figured I'd suffered enough of a punishment with my leg. My uncle never said a word to me about that night, but he never looked at me the same again.  
  
"For the longest time, all the time I was a thief really, all I could remember was that slap: how hard he hit me, how much it hurt. It was a reminder to me of how much I hated him. Now," he closed his eyes again, squeezed them tight, "Now when I think of him, all I remember was that look on his face: how much he loved me, how he never let me see it again. And I think I hate him more."  
  
She looked up at him, put her hand on his cheek. "No, you don't."  
  
"Oh, really. And just what makes you so sure of that, huh?"  
  
"Because if you really did hate him, you wouldn't have told me that story. Not here, not now. Don't make the same mistake he did. Don't hide your love behind your anger. They are not mutually exclusive."  
  
He smiled softly at her, tousled her hair. "How'd you get so smart?"  
  
"Simple. I make lots of mistakes. Frankly, I think you're going to be my favorite one." She winked at him, bit her lip.  
  
He laughed, closed the short distance between them and kissed her, tenderly at first, then harder as their passion renewed itself. He grinned as she began to kiss her way down his body; apparently he was a mistake she was willing to make over and over again.  
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They lay curled up together. She was sleeping with her head on his shoulder; he was awake, stroking her hair splayed out on his chest. As he ran his fingers through the dark silk he couldn't stop himself from shaking his head and grinning. She'd taken him by surprise, this one. He hadn't expected to find himself here again. Over the past year and a half, he'd learned not to look for too much in his relationships with women. Oh sure, there'd been plenty of friendships, some flirtatious attractions, lust even once or twice, but nothing deeper, not since Casey.  
  
Casey. She used to tease him, call him a romantic fool for some of his charmingly old-fashioned notions of what love meant. He'd found love with Casey, though, and peace. Of course, in the end, that love and that peace had turned out to be a lie because *he* had been a lie.  
  
He had an alarming déjà vu. Wasn't he a lie here too? Hadn't he lied to Lola about who he was and what he did, just like he had with Casey? 'Whoa, slow down there, bro,' he thought to himself. This was a completely different thing. With Casey, he had lied to protect himself, because he was afraid to let her know that he was a thief. Here, he was lying to protect the Agency, to protect Lola even.  
  
In his head, he could almost hear Hobbes and the 'Fish nodding in agreement. Yup, had to keep the Agency and its damn gland safe from prying eyes. Better that Lola should know nothing about it -- that way the Agency and the 'Fish wouldn't have a reason to distrust her or send her away. Surely the 'Fish wouldn't be able to deny him this most basic of comforts. Hell, even caged zoo animals were allowed to have their mates. He had a right to a normal life, just as much as the next man, right?   
  
Then again, hadn't his father said just that? His father had tried to have a normal life and look at what a disaster that had turned out to be for his family -- destroying not just one life but four. Was he willing to risk it, to take the chance that he might wind up hurting Lola just as deeply as his father had hurt his mother? Hadn't he already done just that with Casey?  
  
He looked at the woman sleeping in his arms. Alright, so his father hadn't been able to make it work. And yes, dammit, he had hurt Casey, deeply, irreparably. But that didn't mean that he couldn't learn from his father's mistakes, from *his* mistakes. He could change, he could make this work; he *would* make this work, somehow. He would cut through all the lies he'd told, he'd been *forced* to tell, and make a new beginning with Lola. Where it would take them, he hadn't the faintest clue. Whether they'd be together for a lifetime or a few weeks, he didn't know, didn't care. It was the journey he wanted, the chance to prove to her, to himself, to everyone, that he deserved this, that happiness and normalcy weren't completely beyond his grasp, his ability.  
  
And tomorrow, he promised silently just before he fell asleep, tomorrow he would find a way to tell her his real name.  
  
TBC 


	4. Part 3: Sweet Surrender, PG-13

AUTHOR'S NOTE: THIS VERSION OF PART 3 CARRIES A PG-13 RATING. THERE IS ANOTHER NC-17 VERSION OF THIS PART (POSTED IMMEDIATELY PRECEDING THIS ONE), WHICH I FRANKLY THINK IS STRONGER IN TERMS OF WRITING AND INSIGHT. HOWEVER, IF YOU'RE UNDERAGE OR DON'T CARE TO INDULGE, PLEASE ENJOY THIS VERSION.  
  
Part 3 -- Sweet Surrender  
  
There's an old saying: "A man only chases a woman until she catches him." Frankly, I wasn't sure anymore who was the fox and who was the hound, but it was definitely turning out to be a hell of a chase. Problem was the finish line was nowhere in sight.  
************************************************************************************************  
  
The lobby of the Shilo Inn was decorated in what Darien could only describe as 'neo-quaint'. Lots of heavy colonial furniture, copper pots and a hearth that looked like it was straight out of Ye Olde Yankee Shoppe. Unfortunately, this was California. Didn't these people know that they were settled by the Spanish?  
  
Lola was looking around, taking it all in beneath raised eyebrows and a barely suppressed smirk. He smirked back, "Think somebody 'round here needs a history lesson?"  
  
Her responding snort greeted the desk clerk full in the face. She tried to speak, lapsed into a giggle fit, tried to speak again.  
  
"Jeez, calm down, would you? Even I didn't think it was that funny," he told her out of the side of his mouth.  
  
"It's just so ... so ... so ... *wrong*," she replied between laughs. "Anachronistically speaking, of course."  
  
"Of course," he repeated, rolling his eyes at her. Darien turned to the desk clerk, who was watching their exchange, his face smoothed by a long-suffering mask of imperturbability. "Ah, we're gonna be needing a couple of rooms for the night, here."  
  
"Certainly, sir," came back the crisp response. "Would you like the side of the building with the view?"  
  
Darien looked at the clerk. As far as he could tell, the inn was bordered by the highway on one side and the parking lot on the other. "OK, I gotta ask. What view?"  
  
"Of the courtyard, sir." The clerk's voice held all the excitement of a laundromat manager extolling the virtues of his newest drier. "We have some lovely rooms overlooking the pool deck and whirlpool."  
  
It was Darien's turn to snort. "Yeah. Fine. Whatever."  
  
"I'll need to take a card imprint for each of the rooms." The clerk busied himself with the registration forms, unruffled by Darien's less than eloquent answer.  
  
Darien fished his card out of his wallet, while Lola began dumping the contents of her purse all over the counter. By the time the clerk had finished swiping Darien's card and given him his room key, she'd started cursing.  
  
"What's wrong?" he asked, returning his credit card to his wallet and putting his key in his back pocket.  
  
"I can't find my wallet. I can't believe this. I can't find my *wallet*!" Her voice held the edge of light hysteria.  
  
"Alright, alright, calm down there," he put a hand on her shoulder. "Just think for a second. Where was the last place you had it?"  
  
"Oh, well, that's just a great question. If I knew where I'd had it last, I wouldn't have ...," she shrugged away from his hand, then gave a quick start. "Oh, wait, the rest stop! That's where I had it! The rest stop! I was fixing my make up and I had to take my wallet out of my bag to get my make-up kit. You're a genius!" She jumped up on tiptoe, pecked him on the cheek, then began throwing her stuff back into her purse. "We'll just have to go back and get it," she added matter-of-factly.  
  
Darien stood, looking at her busily packing, and hopelessly tried to stem the crimson tide flowing over his face and neck. "Ah ... uhm ... well ... gee ... ah, Lola," Darien stammered, "That rest stop's like three hours away."   
  
"Yeah, so? What are you saying, you don't want to drive back and get it? *I'd* go back if it were your wallet." She blinked at him, appalled at his breech of etiquette. "I mean after all, I *did* go back after your *hair gel*, now didn't I? And need I remind you, that if it wasn't for that mop of yours, we wouldn't be in this mess...."  
  
Her apparent cluelessness as to the flaw in her plan helped him regain control of his facial hue. Clearly he was going to have to spell it out for her. "That's not the point. Even if I did think that your wallet would still be in the *public* bathroom, at the *highway* rest stop, *six* hours after you left it there, we'd still need a *car* to get there, no?" He gestured in the general direction of the garage where they'd left the car to be fixed.  
  
Her expression sank like the Titanic. "Oh, crap, that's right." He couldn't help but smile at hearing his catchphrase come out of her mouth; she put the heel of one hand to her forehead. "Well, hell, what am I supposed to do now? All my credit cards and money were in my wallet." She stared down at the floor for a moment, bit her lip, looked up at him with a grimace. "I don't suppose you could lend me the money for a room ...?"  
  
He did a quick bit of mental accounting. Very quick, in fact, since he had the grand sum of $83.67 to his name and one soon-to-be-maxed-out Visa card in his wallet. "Look, Lola, I would love to but I can't. I mean, along with my room, I've still got to pay for the rest of the car repair. Not to mention dinner tonight, breakfast tomorrow and gas for the trip home. There's just no way. The best I can offer...," he waved his hands absently at the ceiling, "I mean, the only solution I can think of ...." He trailed off, hoping she would jump in before he would have to actually voice the suggestion. She just stood there looking blankly at him, arms folded, mouth hanging open.  
  
The desk clerk startled them both out of their staring contest by clearing his throat. He blandly held out a second key to Darien's room. Setting her jaw, she walked over and snatched it from his hand.  
  
"Is there a place where we can get dinner?" she managed to grit out.  
  
The clerk pointed across the lobby at the entrance to what appeared to be a glorified charcoal pit. "We have a very good Italian restaurant and lounge. If you dine before six, you can take advantage of their early bird specials."  
  
Lola swung her eyes to the red, white and green striped awning that proclaimed the name of the place as 'Goomba's', then over at Darien. "Tres elegant," was her only comment.  
  
"Hey, don't knock it. At least it's a step above last night's joint, right?" It was actually a couple notches above most of the places he usually frequented, but he was damned if he was going to tell her that Pancho's Taco Bar was his normal dining establishment.  
  
She pulled a wearied scowl, grabbed her briefcase and headed towards the glass doors leading to the courtyard. "Great. My dining standard has just become the burger barn at the Vagabond Inn. Now I can die happy."  
  
Darien sighed and picked up the luggage. As much as he admired her rear view, watching it walking away from him was getting old. He started up the stairs, following her yet again. "Look, let's just get up to the room so I can drop these damn bags and take a shower."  
  
She stopped in the middle of the stairs and turned to face him. "You know, if you didn't want to carry my bag anymore, all you had to do was say so! I told you I'd carry it. I do it all the time." She stomped down the few steps to meet him on his way up.  
  
"No, no, it's fine. I've got it." Under his breath he muttered, "Just like a chick. Offer to do it after you've already got it handled."  
  
"What?" Her tone could have cut diamonds.  
  
"Ah, nothing." He was a bit chagrinned that she'd caught that comment.  
  
"No, you said something. I heard you."  
  
"Well, if you heard me, then why are you asking?" He was tired, more than a little aggravated and at that moment, the last thing he wanted was to have a blow out on the stairs in the middle of some mediocre motel. But if she really wanted a fight, he wasn't going to deny her one.  
  
She narrowed her eyes at him, held out her hand expectantly. "Look, do you want me to carry that duffel or not?"  
  
"Fine." He dropped the strap into her waiting hand, the weight of the duffel almost tipping her over onto the bottom step. He simply climbed past her and remarked, "This particular bell hop's going to take a shower."  
  
"Fine," she called after him. The last thing he heard as he stepped into their room was the sound of her duffel bumping up the stairs one step at a time.  
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Darien emerged from the shower his mind and his mood invigorated. He spiked his hair with some fresh gel and threw on a clean pair of pants and a t-shirt. He stepped out of the bathroom with a witty remark on his lips about chicks not being the only ones who took forever in the bath when he caught sight of Lola.   
  
At some point during his shower, she'd managed to drag her duffel into the room and dump it on the floor. Now, she was sketching again, propped on the bed, her pencils softly scratching the paper as they slid over the page. Not wanting to break the concentration plainly evident on her face, he simply leaned back against the wall, folded his arms and watched her for a few moments.  
  
She must have felt his eyes on her because she stopped sketching and put down her things. Rising from the bed, she made a show out of fluffing the pillows against the heavy, dark, ornate headboard of the queen-size bed that dominated the small room. "Wouldn't want you to think I was claiming the bed," she shot at him, "After all, isn't that another thing we 'chicks' do? Always take the bed?"  
  
"Look, Lola, do you think we could maybe call a cease fire here for a while?" He backed up his suggestion with his hurt puppy face, knowing full well the effect it had on most women.  
  
And, like butter, she melted. "Well, I suppose, at least through dinner," she replied sulkily.  
  
"That's a girl," he coached her. "C'mon, go take a quick shower and we'll go get something to eat, OK?"  
  
"OK." She fished in her duffel for some clean clothes and headed for the bathroom.  
  
"And hurry up," he yelled after her, then couldn't help but add, "'Cuz chicks always take too long in the bathroom." He ducked just in time to avoid the travel-size soap that came sailing out of the doorway at him.  
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Goomba's as it turned out, actually had quite good food, despite the regrettable 'Lady and the Tramp' décor. He'd eaten a caesar salad, a basket of garlic bread and a healthy slab of the house's special lasagna, before polishing off the remainder of her eggplant parmigiana over linguini.   
  
"What are you? A bottomless pit? I swear, I'm gaining weight just watching you eat." She laughed as he scanned the dessert menu while they waited for their coffee. Apparently half a bottle of red wine had helped smooth her ruffled feathers.  
  
He gave her a mellow smile in return. "What can I say? I like to eat ... among other things." OK, so he wasn't completely unaffected by the wine himself. She pulled a mock scowl and wagged a finger at him. At that moment, she looked like one of those sexy schoolmarm types that were sometimes featured in 'men's' magazines. He was tempted to tell her so, but didn't want to push his luck. They'd finally reached detente again and he was loath to return to open hostilities. Instead, he settled on asking her about her work.  
  
"What, what's it like, what you do? I mean, I was watching you upstairs with your pad and your pencils. You were a million miles away, lost in what you were drawing. What's it like to do that? To see something in your mind and then be able to capture it on paper?"  
  
"Good lord, Ray, I don't know. I can't explain it. Sometimes it just comes to me; it just pops right into my mind. I can see it clear as day and it's just a matter of copying it out onto the paper. Kinda like tracing a picture from a magazine, you know? Then other times, I'm at a loss, I haven't got a clue." She looked away from him, over to the far wall of the restaurant, drew a breath, only to exhale a moment later and close her eyes. "But then I put a line down on the paper and another one just seems to attach itself and then another again and again, and I'm just as surprised as anyone else is by the end result." She opened her eyes again, focused on him. "I think those are my favorites, my best work really. Where there's no conscious thought involved, it just sort of *happens*.  
  
"It's always been like that. I've loved drawing ever since I was a child. My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was 10. She was dead by the time I was 11. Drawing was a way to escape, I guess. I mean, in real life, I had to watch my mom get sick and wither away. Then, after she died, I had to take care of my dad and Gwen. I took over cooking and cleaning and making sure Gwen got her homework done and stuff, so my dad didn't have to worry about it. Drawing took me away from all that, let me be whatever I wanted, do whatever I wanted, see whatever I wanted. Do you know what it is to want, to need to escape like that?" She took a drink of water and waited for his answer, looking at him from under her eyelashes.   
  
Her story had a familiar ring for Darien; she wasn't the first female he'd known who'd turned to art to help her through a traumatic childhood experience. Jessica Semplar had been one of his earliest cases with the Agency. The child had become a voluntary mute after witnessing the assassination of a visiting foreign dignitary. When it was discovered the only person she'd speak to was her invisible friend, Ralph, Darien had been ordered to assume Ralph's identity. Jessica had been quite the little artist; she'd even been good enough that Hobbes had used one of her paintings to triangulate the position of the assassin's shot. But like most of the women in Darien's life, Jessica had left him behind. He tried to assuage the pain that still sprang up fresh when he thought of her, rationalizing that it wasn't Darien the man that Jessica had outgrown, but Ralph, her imaginary friend.   
  
Now he pictured Lola as a young girl like Jessica, perhaps with one long, dark braid down her back and wearing a white painter's smock with a little water color palette at the ready. He pictured himself, bangs in his eyes, drill in his hand, leaning over a tricky lock in Liz's apartment. Oh yes, he understood the need to escape all too well. "Yeah. I think I do."  
  
She locked eyes with him then, tilting her head one way, then the other. "How? How do you know?"  
  
"My mom died when I was seven, two years after my dad took off for parts unknown. After that, there wasn't exactly a custody struggle for my older brother, Kevin, and me so we got shipped off to the relatives with the least objections, my Aunt Celia and Uncle Peter. They were an older couple that didn't have any children of their own and they did their best, but they weren't exactly June and Wally Cleaver, you know?  
  
"As we grew up, Kevin got more and more into science. Eventually he earned like three PHDs and a Nobel Prize or something. Me, I got more and more into trouble and wound up with an advanced degree in cat burglary, which earned me a stay or two in assorted state correctional facilities. You know the rest: my brother got me out, I paired up with Hobbes and here I am, sitting with you."  
  
"Jesus, what a detached resume. Tell me, don't you ever regret the choices you've made, the things you've lost?"  
  
Darien thought about it. Yeah, he'd had some tough turns in life, some out of his hands, some of his own making. But he'd learned early on that you just had to play the hand dealt. Besides, did she really expect him to sit there in a room full of strangers and admit between coffee and cheesecake that he still had nightmares about losing those he loved? That all he had to do was close his eyes to hear his mother's laugh or that last horrible time Kevin had called his name? He willed his tone to harden and his face to take on the wise guy exterior he'd cultivated in prison. "Well, let's just say I'm not someone to cry over spilled milk, OK?"  
  
"Where's Kevin now?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Your brother? Is he near you in San Diego? I mean, my sister is back east and I don't get to see her that often ...."  
  
"He's dead." He blurted it out with a sense of fatigued annoyance that came from having had to repeat the same phrase over and over for more than a year. And he'd have to repeat it for the rest of his life, whenever anybody asked about his brother. It was like having a wound that was never allowed to heal, just reopened every so often so it could spill fresh blood.  
  
Her hands flew to her face. "What?"  
  
"He was, ah, murdered, shot ...." His voice trailed off to a whisper as he took a sip of his drink to wet his suddenly arid throat.  
  
"My god. You really are alone, aren't you?" She reached out and touched his cheek. He put his hand over hers and gave a soft, sad smile.  
  
"No, not really. I have Hobbes and other friends where I work." To his surprise, he really meant it. He looked her straight in the eye, held her gaze. "Besides, right now I'm sitting here having dinner with the prettiest girl in the place."  
  
She flushed and pulled her hand away from his. Looking down, she gathered her things. "I'm sorry. You know what? I, uhm, don't feel so hot." She rose from the table and started backing away. "I'm just, ah, gonna head up to the room and lie down, OK? OK. Bye." Before he could respond, she turned and dashed out of the restaurant as unobtrusively as possible.  
  
He sat stunned for a moment, then pulled some bills from his wallet, dropped them on the table and took off after her.   
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He caught up with her just as she was crossing the pool area. "Hey, Lola, wait!" He slowed as he neared her, reaching out to grab her shoulder and turn her to him. "Listen, if I said or did anything back there to upset you, I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."  
  
"No, Ray, no. It wasn't you -- it was me." She gave a short, brittle laugh that held a twist of irony.  
  
"You?" He shook his head in confusion. As far as he remembered, she'd behaved perfectly. "What did you do?"  
  
"Nothing yet. But I will. I know I shouldn't but I will," she slid her hand up his arm, from wrist to elbow, elbow to shoulder, stopping finally in a light grip at the back of his neck, twining her fingers in the fringe of his curls there. "Especially if you keep looking at me like that."  
  
"And how am I looking at you?" He took a step closer, trapped her again with his eyes.  
  
She backed up a step, on tiptoe, fingers still in his hair. She stopped when she reached the edge of the pool and had nowhere left to run. He followed, his eyes never leaving hers. "Like a starving man looking at a plate of lamb chops," she breathed out.  
  
He tugged at her free arm, wrapped it around his waist. He brought his other hand around to cup the back of her head, pulling her up even more on tiptoe as he dropped his own down to meet it. "Mmm, lambchops, my favorite." His voice was deep, chocolate, velvet.  
  
"Mine too," she murmured right before all conversation ceased. 'Just like a chick,' was the last coherent thought his brain registered, amused at her blatant need to get the last word in. The rest of his mind was lost in her. In her taste: sweet, spicy, wholesome, just like an oatmeal cookie. In her scent: surrounding him in warm, comfortable memories. In the feel of her: his arms surrounding her, his mouth moving on hers.   
  
He leaned in to deepen the kiss, wanting to taste, smell, feel her more fully. To his disappointment, rather than responding in kind, she began to move back, yet without loosening her grip on him. He was confused until he felt her lose her balance all together and realized that in his enthusiasm, he'd inadvertently knocked her backwards. She was falling ... into the pool ... taking him with her.  
  
They landed with a large splash in the heated water, never breaking the kiss until they were both out of breath. He bobbed, sputtering, to the surface. She came up by the pool ladder and nimbly climbed out. She stood by the edge of the pool, all eyes and dripping hair, looking like a bedraggled Mona Lisa.  
  
He climbed out a moment later. "I, ah, guess we should go and, uhm, change out of these wet things." He gestured up the stairs in the direction of their room. Her only response was a quick nod.  
  
He let her go up the stairs first, enjoying the view her soaking clothes afforded him. When he remembered his own pants were clinging to him, he strategically arranged a shirt tail. She waited silently at the room door. He opened it and they went in.  
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Under the stairs a portly figure emerged from the shadows. Whistling lightly he made his way to the pay phones in the lobby. Dialing the familiar number from memory, he heard the smooth criminal who was his client and temporary boss answer.  
  
"What do you have for me, Clyde?"  
  
"The sabotage went off without a hitch; car's in the garage. We're stopped for the night near Bakersfield. We'll be leaving for San Diego in the morning," Clyde dutifully reported, "I got to admit, that kid you saddled me with is slick."  
  
"My 'kid,' as you like to call my agent, is actually a mature operative with extensive field experience. You'd do best to remember that," Stark's tone was blasé in its menace. There was no need to detail the unspoken threat. "You're doing quite well for hired help, though, Clyde. Keep it up and perhaps we'll have more jobs for you in the future. In the meantime, I'll send a pick-up squad and we'll make the grab in the morning. Until then, make sure you stick to him."  
  
Clyde gave a dry snigger. "Don't worry, Stark. The only way we could get any closer is if one of us slept with him...."  
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Without a word, Lola went straight to the bathroom and shut the door. Darien, figuring the moment lost, stripped off his wet shirt, along with his socks and shoes. He was just pulling out a pair of dry pajama bottoms when he heard the bathroom door open.  
  
Come here," she called. He turned to see her exiting the bathroom with one towel wrapped around her and another spread out across both hands.  
  
He grinned at her, teasing. "Uh, why should I?"  
  
"Because I said so, that's why. Now get your ass over here."  
  
"You are the *bossiest* little thing." He crossed the room to stand in front of the bed, looking down at her face and laughing softly.  
  
"Yeah, well, what's your point? Now give me your head."  
  
"Give you my head?" he repeated with a smirk.  
  
"So I can dry your hair," came the answer, accompanied by a playful pursing of lips and much innocent blinking.  
  
"Ooooh." Grinning, he lowered his head and she wrapped it in the free towel, rubbing briskly to absorb the water. His muffled voice came from under the towel, "You know, the last person I let do this was my mother."  
  
She laughed out loud, then released his head from the towel. "Hmmm, that's really not someone I was hoping to be confused with." She took the towel and began drying his shoulders and chest.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Really."  
  
"I don't think that's going to be a problem."  
  
"Good. Now is there anywhere else that you'd like ... uhm ... dried?" It was her turn to smirk and she did so, cocking an eyebrow and unsuccessfully suppressing a grin.  
  
"Oh, yeah. Just one thing though." He reached out and tugged away the towel wrapping her body. "I want you to use this one." He grabbed her up into his arms and leaned his face down to hers.  
  
"You got it," she said softly, just before knocking him down onto the bed.  
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
A little while later they lay still, his tall form tumbled on top of her tiny one, until he felt her lightly pushing against him. "Uh, Ray, I can't breathe."  
  
He raised himself up on his elbows and smiled down at her sheepishly. "Sorry." He rolled onto his back, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her with him. She landed on top, coming to rest her chin on his chest.  
  
"S'okay." She grinned lazily at him through half-lidded eyes.  
  
He chuckled at her satisfied expression. "Well, I guess I finally found a way to get the last word in."  
  
She rolled her head on her shoulders like a cat washing itself, kissed him smack dab in the middle of his chest. "Did not."  
  
"Did too." He quickly grabbed her head in his hands, pulling her up for what he intended to be a gentle kiss, but which surprised them both with the intensity of their mutual need.  
  
"Not fair," she managed to get out breathlessly when he released her.  
  
He grinned at her. "Well, you know the old saying about love and war, don't you?"  
  
"Who said this was either?" She lay on her side, head propped in her hand.  
  
"Frankly, I'm thinking it's a little of both." He leisurely traced her profile with his index finger.  
  
"Doesn't matter." She shook her head, made to bite his finger. "Still not fair. As payment, you owe me one story -- about you. Pay up now and make it a good one."  
  
"A story? About me, huh?" He sighed, thought for a moment about the irony of her request. Sure, he had lots of good stories these days -- ones where he even turned out to be the hero -- but none of which he could tell her. He didn't want to have to lie to her though, not now, not anymore than he had to. In this at least, he wanted to give her the truth, to make a present of his honesty. So he settled on one from his childhood, one he'd never shared with anyone.  
  
He turned his face away from her, focused on a corner of the dark room. "I was 12 the first time I, uhm, got caught, uhm, stealing, you know?" He swallowed, closed his eyes. "It was stupid really, just a bunch of my buddies and me out for some thrills. We were only going to break into the junior high, steal some sports stuff, like basketballs. All we were going to do was take 'em, have a midnight game down at the local hoops court and then leave them there. It was really more of a prank than anything else.  
  
"One of the older kids, Benny, he knew how to pick locks and he got us into the school. Man, I was completely in awe of that guy, of the fact that he seemed to have the power to go anywhere he wanted. Anyway, we got into the gym and grabbed all these basketballs, some bats, baseballs, crap like that. We were just running out of the building when one of the neighborhood cop cars swung around the corner and happened to catch us in their headlights.  
  
"Kids that we were, we took off like our lives depended on it. We just dropped everything and ran like crazy. You'd have thought we'd stolen the frickin' Hope diamond the way we beat it out of there," he rolled his eyes and shook his head at the memory. "So we're climbing the fence to get out of the schoolyard and I get to the top and it's all sharp, right? 'Cuz the chain link at my part was all broken and rusty. But me, I don't notice; I just want to get away. So over the top I go and the fence catches my right leg. Damn thing tore my leg open from the knee to the ankle." He pulled the sheet back, showed her the faint white line of scar tissue that ran down his leg. "I landed at the bottom with this huge gash in my leg, bleeding like a stuck pig and all my friends are gone.  
  
"The cops, they found me, took me to the emergency room and called my Aunt Celia and Uncle Peter. I didn't know what was going on; I thought they were gonna cart me off to jail after they'd finished stitching up my leg. So I'm sitting on this gurney in this emergency room, scared shitless, when I see my Uncle Peter coming down the hall. I watch him sort of scanning the open doorways looking for me and then when he finally sees me, he gets the most amazing look on his face. I see him take in all the blood and the stitches and the pain on my face, but on his face ...," Darien stopped, swallowed hard again, "On his face I could see all the love he had for me, all the fear he had of losing me, all the relief now that he knew I was OK. So he walks into the room, comes right up to me. I look up at him with tears in my eyes because I'm just so damn happy that he's there. He looks down at me, still with all this love in his eyes, and he slaps me, hard, right across the face.  
  
"And that was it. The school and the cops didn't press charges; I guess they figured I'd suffered enough of a punishment with my leg. My uncle never said a word to me about that night, but he never looked at me the same again.  
  
"For the longest time, all the time I was a thief really, all I could remember was that slap: how hard he hit me, how much it hurt. It was a reminder to me of how much I hated him. Now," he closed his eyes again, squeezed them tight, "Now when I think of him, all I remember was that look on his face: how much he loved me, how he never let me see it again. And I think I hate him more."  
  
She looked up at him, put her hand on his cheek. "No, you don't."  
  
"Oh, really. And just what makes you so sure of that, huh?"  
  
"Because if you really did hate him, you wouldn't have told me that story. Not here, not now. Don't make the same mistake he did. Don't hide your love behind your anger. They are not mutually exclusive."  
  
He smiled softly at her, tousled her hair. "How'd you get so smart?"  
  
"Simple. I make lots of mistakes. Frankly, I think you're going to be my favorite one." She winked at him, bit her lip.  
  
He laughed, closed the short distance between them and kissed her, tenderly at first, then harder as their passion renewed itself. He grinned as she began to kiss her way down his body; apparently he was a mistake she was willing to make over and over again.  
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
They lay curled up together. She was sleeping with her head on his shoulder; he was awake, stroking her hair splayed out on his chest. As he ran his fingers through the dark silk he couldn't stop himself from shaking his head and grinning. She'd taken him by surprise, this one. He hadn't expected to find himself here again. Over the past year and a half, he'd learned not to look for too much in his relationships with women. Oh sure, there'd been plenty of friendships, some flirtatious attractions, lust even once or twice, but nothing deeper, not since Casey.  
  
Casey. She used to tease him, call him a romantic fool for some of his charmingly old-fashioned notions of what love meant. He'd found love with Casey, though, and peace. Of course, in the end, that love and that peace had turned out to be a lie because *he* had been a lie.  
  
He had an alarming déjà vu. Wasn't he a lie here too? Hadn't he lied to Lola about who he was and what he did, just like he had with Casey? 'Whoa, slow down there, bro,' he thought to himself. This was a completely different thing. With Casey, he had lied to protect himself, because he was afraid to let her know that he was a thief. Here, he was lying to protect the Agency, to protect Lola even.  
  
In his head, he could almost hear Hobbes and the 'Fish nodding in agreement. Yup, had to keep the Agency and its damn gland safe from prying eyes. Better that Lola should know nothing about it -- that way the Agency and the 'Fish wouldn't have a reason to distrust her or send her away. Surely the 'Fish wouldn't be able to deny him this most basic of comforts. Hell, even caged zoo animals were allowed to have their mates. He had a right to a normal life, just as much as the next man, right?   
  
Then again, hadn't his father said just that? His father had tried to have a normal life and look at what a disaster that had turned out to be for his family -- destroying not just one life but four. Was he willing to risk it, to take the chance that he might wind up hurting Lola just as deeply as his father had hurt his mother? Hadn't he already done just that with Casey?  
  
He looked at the woman sleeping in his arms. Alright, so his father hadn't been able to make it work. And yes, dammit, he had hurt Casey, deeply, irreparably. But that didn't mean that he couldn't learn from his father's mistakes, from *his* mistakes. He could change, he could make this work; he *would* make this work, somehow. He would cut through all the lies he'd told, he'd been *forced* to tell, and make a new beginning with Lola. Where it would take them, he hadn't the faintest clue. Whether they'd be together for a lifetime or a few weeks, he didn't know, didn't care. It was the journey he wanted, the chance to prove to her, to himself, to everyone, that he deserved this, that happiness and normalcy weren't completely beyond his grasp, his ability.  
  
And tomorrow, he promised silently just before he fell asleep, tomorrow he would find a way to tell her his real name.  
  
TBC 


	5. Stuck in a Moment

Part 4 -- Stuck in Moment  
  
You know how there are some days in your life when you wake up and everything seems new? Like you've been given a fresh start, all your troubles, all the things you've been struggling with, have just magically disappeared? I think H.L. Mencken summed up the feeling best when he wrote: "We are here and it is now. Further than that all human knowledge is moonshine." Now on most mornings I might have been tempted to argue the point with good ole Henry, but that morning, I was more than happy to accept it at face value. It seemed as if just about anything might happen, and, as usual, it did.  
**********************************************************************************************  
  
Darien awoke to a single crack of sunlight forcing its way through the center seam of the drawn curtain panels and hitting him right in the eye. It took him a moment to recognize where he was and why there was a small, warm form curled up to his side. His body remembered more quickly than his sleep-fogged brain and that reaction prompted him towards alertness faster than any caffeine fix had ever done. Softly, slowly he slid his tall frame down the length of her tiny, sleeping one. She stirred lightly and he nuzzled her ear. "Hey, Lo," he grinned at his own pun.  
  
Lola, however, was less than impressed. "Shhh," she hissed, burying her head under the pillow.  
  
He trailed a hand leisurely across her ass, up her side, and tickled her underarm. "C'mon, wake up, sugar," he cooed.  
  
The only response he got was a muffled plea of, "sleep," as she swatted his hand away. Great. He had to choose to get physical with the only person in the world who liked sleep better than he did. With a disappointed sigh, he left the bed and headed to the shower.  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
She was up when he came out, lying in bed watching the news. "Oh, you're dressed," she observed slyly, "You should have woken me sooner."  
  
Darien rolled his eyes and prayed for patience. "Well, you were so peaceful, I just figured I'd let you sleep."  
  
"Oh, well, too bad," she chirruped, sliding from the bed.  
  
"Yeah, too bad," he echoed, wistfully watching her sleek form strolling towards the bathroom. When the door shut and he heard the shower start, he picked up the phone, deciding it would be an opportune time to check in with his partner.  
  
"Hey, Hobbsey."  
  
"Fawkes! What happened? I thought you were going to call me when you got home last night, partner?"  
  
"Yeah, well, I was. It's just that, uh, I didn't actually, ah, make it home last night ...."  
  
"Why you slick little Casanova, you..."  
  
"Whoa, whoa, slow down there, Hoss. It's not what you think; it's just that we, uhm, had, ah, some, ahhh ..."  
  
"Car trouble? Let me guess, you ran out of gas?" Hobbes snorted.  
  
"Ah, yes. I mean, no. I mean yes, we had car trouble. There was a hole in the radiator and we had to leave it in the garage overnight to get fixed."  
  
"Ah hah, right. And you just *had* to stay in a hotel ...."  
  
"Well, yeah, actually we did. The Shilo Inn in Delano."  
  
"Mmmhmm. And there was no room left at the inn, so you two had to share, right?"  
  
"No, no, not right," Darien crossed his fingers, then remembered that Hobbes had once pointed out his tendency to lie with one-word answers, so he quickly added, "That's not what happened at all. Not everyone gives in to every dirty little impulse they have, you know."  
  
Lola chose that moment to begin singing, very loudly and very off-key.  
  
"Really. You want to tell me who's singing in the background then, Mr. Self-Control?"  
  
"Ah, no."  
  
"No?"  
  
"No."  
  
"So you did get a personal tour of luscious Lola's sugar shack last night ...."  
  
"Hobbes, remind me when I get back to damage you for that last remark."  
  
"Oh, please, I can hear you turning into a tomato over the phone line, my friend."  
  
"Hobbes, I'm hanging up now."  
  
"Hey, just exactly how big *is* your sweet tooth?"  
  
"Goodbye, Hobbes."  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
By the time Lola had finished showering and dressing, Darien was sitting on the bed fiddling with the TV remote.  
  
"Whatcha doin'?" she asked, as she stowed the last of her gear in her bag.  
  
"Just experiencing the wonder of modern technology," he grinned at her.  
  
"What? You finally figured out you could get dirty movies on this thing?" She raised her eyebrows and gave him a friendly nudge with her shoulder as she sat next to him on the bed.  
  
"No," a shy grin accompanied the flush that spread from his ears downward as he nudged her back, "I, uhm, just managed to figure out how to, ah, use the ole Express Checkout option here."  
  
"Wow, you really are a techno-security whiz," she deadpanned.  
  
"And don't you forget it." He stood, pulled her to feet. "C'mon, let's drop the keys and our bags at the front desk and go get something to eat. I'm *starving*." He grabbed their bags and headed towards the door, only to be stopped by her hand on his arm.  
  
"Oh, no. I'll take my bag down. You do *not* have to do it." She gave him a firm look that brooked no nonsense.  
  
"No, Lo, look, I've got it. Really. It's not a problem." He shot back his most charming smile, while silently cursing the duffel bag that had become the third wheel in their little party.  
  
Putting her hand out expectantly, she knitted her brows skeptically. "Yeah, and where have I heard *that* before? Next thing I know you'll be following me and swearing under your breath again."  
  
"Nope, not gonna happen," he shook his head at her, grinning at her schoolmarm scowl. "Honestly, I *want* to take it. Scout's Honor." He made a vague hand gesture somewhere between the Boy Scout and Vulcan salutes, placed a quick kiss in her outstretched palm, grabbed the bags and beat her to the staircase.  
  
As he started down towards the ground level, he could hear her call indignantly from the room, "Hey, I'll bet you never even were a Boy Scout!" Then, much to his satisfaction, he heard her hurry down the stairs, for once following him.  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Darien was just finishing his "garbage" omelet when Lola returned to the table carrying a plate full of Belgian waffles smothered in whipped cream and strawberries and another of fresh fruit. Placing the waffles by Darien's side, she took her seat and cut into a slice of melon. She watched him put away the last bite of eggs, then slide the empty plate over and start on the waffles. When his mouth was good and full, she smiled cheerfully, "I figured I'd save us some time so I just asked them to roll the rest of the breakfast buffet over to you, OK?"  
  
Grinning, he speared another mound of waffle, rolled it in the strawberries and cream, and slowly, purposefully put it in his mouth, smacked his lips and chewed.  
  
"OK, now you're just being a brat," she giggled. "Hey, you know what was weird? I thought I saw that guy from the bar in Sacramento over by the oatmeal."  
  
Darien put his fork down. "What guy?" he asked around a mouth full of waffle.  
  
"You know, the guy from the burger barn ... the chubby super hero?" Lola twisted around in her seat, trying to get a better view of the breakfast display. "I could swear it was the same guy getting some oatmeal when I was getting my fruit. Wouldn't it be wild if he got stuck driving to San Diego just like we did? I mean what are the odds?"   
  
Darien swallowed, he knew what the odds were and he didn't like them. "Listen, Lo, tell you what? This should cover the rest of the repair. Why don't you go pick up the car?" he put his napkin on the table and rose from his seat.   
  
She looked at the wad of bills he held out to her quizzically. "What? What's the matter? Are you worried about this guy for some reason?"  
  
"Worried? Moi?" he widened his eyes innocently. "What makes you say that?"  
  
"Well, for one thing you stopped eating," she pointed at the half full plate of waffles at his seat, "and there's still food left."  
  
He gave a soft snicker. "I'm not worried about some imaginary super hero guy you think you might have seen," he placed the money in her hands. "I'm just, um, gonna pay the breakfast bill and then I gotta go make a call. We can hit the road quicker if you'll pick up the car and grab the bags. I'll, ah, meet you out front in a bit."  
  
"What? You want me to load the bags?" She blinked at him in shock.  
  
"Look, I've carried your bag all over creation, the least you can do is put mine in the car without an argument." Darien shook his head. He was seriously beginning to hate that duffel bag.  
  
"I knew it!" She pointed an accusatory finger his way. "You didn't want to carry my bag! Why in the hell did you keep on offering to carry it if you didn't want to?"  
  
Oh yeah, he hated that damn bag. "Lo, Lo, calm down here. This is not about your bag, I swear. I just really need to call my office, so please, get the car, get the bags and we'll be on the road in no time, OK?"  
  
"Well, OK," she said skeptically to his already departing back, then she put the money in her purse and left.  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Darien paid the breakfast bill at the register, loudly praising the buffet to the cashier. Then he left the restaurant, leisurely sauntering down the first hall he saw as if he didn't have a care in the world. He stopped at the first door that had the "Maid" sign on the handle, slid his credit card between the lock and the frame and slipped in. Quicksilvering, he rushed over to the window and opened it, then jumped into the closet just before the door opened again.   
  
Clyde entered the room, gun drawn, sunglasses on. Sweeping the room with a few rapid glances, he spied the open window, ran over, looked out, then pulled off his sunglasses with a disgusted sigh, "Damn."   
  
He left the room, followed now by an invisible Darien. Huffing and puffing, he rushed through the hotel corridors until he came to his room. Stepping inside, he called to the bathroom door, "Let's go! He slipped out the window on me, but if we hurry we can pick him up before ...." Behind Clyde a vase flew off the dresser, dropping him to the floor.   
  
At the sudden silence, the bathroom door opened. A lone figure emerged and rushed to the figure on the floor, checking the older man's shoulder holster, then, finding it empty, standing and demanding, "Alright, Mr. Fawkes, show yourself or do I really need to take out my thermals?"  
  
Darien reappeared, leaning against the wall, feet crossed and holding Clyde's gun on what to all appearances was a young boy. "Well, well, if it isn't my little peeping tom buddy. Let me guess: you just happened to miss the plane yesterday morning too? I should have known Stark was behind all my little 'accidents'."  
  
"Oh, really, and what exactly makes you think Chrysalis is responsible for everything?" asked Darien's teenage nemesis from Sunday's aborted flight.  
  
"Because Stark is the only scumbag I know who would use a 15-year old kid to do his dirty work ...."  
  
"Actually I'm 23. And don't think we're the only ones you need to worry about. It's true, we've been tailing you, and maybe I did put a hole in your radiator, but that's all. We had nothing to do with that flight cancellation, nor with the fact that Ms. Gerot ... 'lost' her wallet. That is what she told you, isn't it? Terribly convenient, don't you think?" The kid paused, then snorted. "Honestly, Mr. Fawkes, do you really think that bitch is traveling with you because of your charming smile? Wake up: your girlfriend's after the gland just like we are."  
  
"That's a lie," Darien spat out.  
  
The kid gave him a sibilant smile. "Is it? Yesterday, at the airport, while you were phoning your playmates at the Agency, I overheard her telling someone on the phone that she just spent the last week working with the CIA up in St. Helena. Are you really so naive as to think your own government's above using a woman to get to you? Please, it's the oldest trick in the book. As I recall, we even tried it on you once before. But at least with us, you knew we were the enemy."  
  
"Oh really? Well, if she's CIA, why am I still walking around free, huh? After all, she's had plenty of chances to grab me: back in Sacramento, at the rest stop, last night..." his voice choked a little as he swallowed the last part.  
  
"Jesus, you really aren't the brightest bulb in the box, are you? It's a wonder you've been such a thorn in Stark's side. Why hasn't she made the grab? Why should she? She's got you tailing her so closely you're gonna drive her right up to the front steps of her building and follow her in." The kid looked Darien up and down and sneered, "You're like a dog on a leash and all that bitch has to do is spread her legs and you'll come running..."  
  
"That's enough," Darien exploded, flinging the words out in a growl as he threw his free hand in a roundhouse punch that knocked the Chrysalid down and out. He stood over the agent's unconscious body for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to sort out just who he was angriest with: Chrysalis for once again messing with his life, the kid for lying about Lola, Lola because maybe the kid wasn't lying or himself for just being so stupid once again. He should have learned by now: trust was a luxury he couldn't afford. He hadn't been good at it before the gland; having his good buddy, Manny Merrick, frame him for a crime Manny himself had committed had taught him that. And now, well, now it could get him killed. Maybe Hobbes was right, maybe a little more paranoia on his part would be a good thing. Hobbes. Crap. He had to call Hobbes and tell him about these guys.  
  
Darien quickly tied up Clyde and the Chrysalis kid using their belts and some of the electrical cords in the room to hold them fast. Then he dialed the number to Hobbes cellphone.  
  
"Bobby Hobbes."  
  
"Bobby, listen, we got a situation here ..."  
  
"Fawkes! What happened? Where are you? I just talked to you 45 minutes ago and everything was fine!"  
  
"Hobbes, would you just skip the 20 questions and listen. We were followed by two guys working for Chrysalis. One of 'em is a guy named Clyde but I think he's a freelancer. I don't know the other guy's name but he's a typical Chrysali, looks like a 15-year-old kid."  
  
"Are you OK? Did they hurt you? Where are you now?" Hobbes went into rapid-fire questioning mode as his secret agent alarms went off.   
  
"Yeah, Bobby, I'm OK. I've got them tied up in their room at the Shilo Inn in Delano. Room #257."  
  
"Alright, now listen: I can have a couple of agents there in less than 90 minutes to make the pick up. I want you to wait for the cavalry, Fawkes."  
  
"Nah, man, I'm gonna hit the road with Lola."  
  
"Negative, my troll-headed partner. You don't know what other little surprises Chrysalis has in store for you. They know you've been driving back via Route 99 from these two; they're bound to have other operatives watching this route. Stay put and let the Agency do the driving, capish?"  
  
"No can do. Look, I had to go invisible in order to sneak up on these guys. Now I need to get to the Keep before I turn into a psychotic pumpkin, ya know? Besides, they may have already called in for a pick-up squad. The sooner I'm outta here, the better."  
  
"Dammit, Fawkes! I *told* you there was something hinky about all these little accidents you've been running into. First that cancelled flight, then the car and that girl ...."  
  
At Hobbes' mention of Lola, Darien instinctively felt his anger rise. "What? What about her?"  
  
"Nothing, nothing, kid," Darien could almost see Hobbes putting out his hands in a calming gesture, trying to placate him, "It's just that that background check was awfully clean, not even so much as a jaywalking ticket. I hate to be the one to say it, partner, but how do we know she's not Chrysalis?"  
  
"She's not Chrysalis, Hobbes." Darien's knuckles stood out white as he gripped the phone.  
  
"Yeah, but how do you *know*, my friend?" The words were classic Hobbes, but the sympathy behind the brusqueness in his partner's tone surprised the younger man.  
  
"Because she's not," Darien let out a long slow sigh, debating whether to tell the more experienced agent what the kid had told him about Lola being CIA. He shook his head. No, the kid had just said that to rattle his cage. If he told Hobbes, he'd probably be playing right in Chrysalis' hands somehow. "Because I *know*, Bobby."  
  
It was Hobbes' turn to sigh. "Alright, but Fawkes, listen to me: anything goes wrong, even the slightest bit, you call us, my friend. Don't try to be a hero to impress this girl. I mean it. Just send up the bat signal and we're there."  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Lola was waiting in the car when Darien came out. He jumped into the passenger side and strapped himself in. She looked over at him, furrowed her brows. "So, ah, I guess you want me to drive then?"   
  
"Yeah." He turned hard eyes toward her, "Why don't you do that?"  
  
They rode in silence, without even the radio playing. Darien sat rigid in his seat, his hand gripping the door handle. Lola sped, weaving in and out of traffic, watching as the car ate up the miles carrying them back to San Diego. A little over an hour into the trip, she sighed, swung her eyes over to Darien. "You know, if there's something you want to say here, you should probably just go ahead and say it."  
  
"What?" The question was bland, but his delivery belied the heat of his feelings.  
  
"I'm just saying, if there's something you need to tell me, you should just come right out and tell me."  
  
"Tell you? Now what would *I* possibly have to tell *you*?" He felt a twinge of conscience at the vehemence of that question, remembering just how he had been lying to her. Then again, if she was CIA, she already knew that. Maybe this was all just part of her strategy.  
  
"I don't know, Ray. But I can definitely sense that there's something in the atmosphere. I think it'd be better if we got it out into the open." She kept her voice calm and her eyes glued to the road.  
  
Fine, she wanted to clear the air, he would. But in his own way. He'd dealt with enough con men first hand to know better than to come right out and ask if she was playing him. So instead he said: "Last night you said you were going to do something ... that you knew you shouldn't but you would. What, what did you mean by that?"  
  
She gave a small sigh of relief. "Oh, only that I knew I shouldn't get involved with you. After all, if experience has taught me anything, it's that I have lousy taste in men."  
  
"Lousy taste in men, huh?" Darien snorted. His taste in women hadn't been exemplary in recent memory.  
  
"Yes, lousy. I've had three big relationships in my life. Each and every one of them was a disaster. I came out west with my first boyfriend right after we graduated high school. He let me clean out my savings to pay our way and then dumped me before we even left the L.A. bus stop. I swore then and there I'd never let another man put me in that position.  
  
"A couple years later, I got involved with a bouncer in the one of the strip clubs I worked. He liked the horses a little too much, but he was the sweetest guy in the world, and I thought, 'hey, everybody's got their faults, right?' Problem was: he wasn't so sweet when he was drinking, especially when I wouldn't give him the money he needed to pay off his gambling losses.  
  
"So there I was, right back where I'd sworn I'd never be again. Only this time, *I* left. I ran as fast and as far as I could -- all the way to France with my sister's help. I took a job apprenticing for a well-known chef there. And goddammit, despite everything I'd learned, everything I'd promised myself, three months later I found myself marrying him. Five months after that, it was over and I was on my way back home." She stopped, her eyes still fixed on the road, only the harshness in her tone betraying her emotions. "Marriages fail all the time, Ray, for lots of reasons. Mine broke up over a burned batch of puff pastry. You can share a bed with a Frenchman. Just don't try and share his kitchen."  
  
"So that's it, huh? You came back home, swore off men and concentrated on your work, right?" His tone was hard, accusatory. "Until of course, you met me, and I just swept you off your feet with my charm and wit and you fell head over heels and you just couldn't stop yourself, right? Right?" His voice got progressively louder as he let his anger at her alleged betrayal, fueled by the first prickles of counteragent craving, bubble up and over into his consciousness.  
  
"Stop it," she demanded. Blinking she pulled the car over onto the shoulder of the highway. She put it in park, then slumped with her head in hands. "Just stop it."   
  
They sat like that for a moment. She with her face covered; he staring as if he could tear the truth out of her with the force of his will alone. Finally she lifted her head, put her shoulders back and met his stare with her own. "Listen," she began levelly, "If you think last night was a mistake, then say so. I'm not trying to trap you into anything, Ray. If last night was all you wanted, then fine, say so. We'll shake hands and part company when we reach San Diego. You can drop me off at my shop and never see me again. Just tell me, that's all I ask."  
  
He looked at her sitting there, trying to see through her suspected façade. But while her face remained shuttered, her words were so plainly open that he couldn't imagine her as a CIA operative. No, he knew two of the best trained agents in the business, and Lola simply had none of the knife-sharp edginess that Hobbes and Monroe displayed. Then again, she could have been trained in that CTS stuff like Monroe -- what was it? Corruption, Temptation and Seduction? Is that what she had done -- purposely lied and seduced him into following her? He looked at her again, saw her hands twisting in her lap as she waited for his answer. No, no. He could not have been that blind, not again, not after Allianora. If she had planned last night, he would have known it, would have sensed it. He was not going to let a Chrysalis lie or his counteragent addiction goad him into ruining his chance at a normal relationship. "No, Lo. Look, I'm sorry, I'm ah, just a little cranky 'cuz I'm getting a headache," he gave her a weak smile, "And hey, you did keep me up way past my bedtime last night."   
  
She stared back at him, narrowing her eyes as she looked into his. "Alright," she said simply, "But I mean it, Ray, I'm not asking you for more than you're willing to give. You just need to let me know." She put the car back in gear and slowly edged her way off the shoulder. "Now why don't you close your eyes and take a nap to get rid of that headache, huh? I think I can find the way back to San Diego on my own."  
  
He broadened his smile and rubbed her shoulder to reassure her as she pulled the car back onto the highway, but his mind echoed the kid's words: '... you're gonna drive her right up to the front steps of her building and follow her in.'  
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Darien did close his eyes, catnapping courtesy of the sun warming his face through the windshield and the rhythmic sound of the tires on the road. His sleep, however, was far from peaceful, the madness always in pursuit, its whispers and hushes skirting the edge of his consciousness, twisting his dreams. Still he slept through the miles, unaware of when they finally left the highway or crossed into San Diego proper. It was only when the car slowed, turned, then stopped finally that he roused himself from his stupor.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," Lola spoke softly, as if he were a sleeping toddler. "I didn't mean to wake you. At least not yet, anyway."  
  
Darien yawned, rubbed his eyes. "Where are we?"  
  
"We're home, in San Diego. I was going to wake you in a little bit and ask whether you wanted to take the car after you drove me home or if I should just drop you off and return the car. But first I wanted to run in here," she pointed at a neon sign for The Kaiser Pharmacy, "and pick up some Tiger Balm for your headache. From the way you were twitching there, it must be a doozy." She ran a soothing hand across his forehead and down his left temple.  
  
"How solicitous of you," he said quietly, then grabbed her comforting hand, jerked it behind her back and pulled her face up to his, nose to nose, eye to red-streaked eye. "Or were you just going to go in there and send out a pick-up squad for me?" He saw her eyes widen and her face pale at his suddenly aggressive behavior. He felt the fear shiver down her body through his fingertips. And while a part of his mind was disgusted by his abuse of her, another part was empowered by it, relished it, fed off it.  
  
"What, what are you talking about?" She pulled lightly against his grip, then began to struggle in earnest when he grabbed her other arm and pinned her against the dashboard. "Stop it, Ray! What's the matter with you?"  
  
"Oh, please, can we drop the charade now?" Darien looked at her with all the warmth of a rattle snake. "You know who I am, just like I know who you are. Did you really think I was just going to sit here and let you hand me over to the CIA like a good little boy?" He laughed softly and nipped the side of her neck.  
  
"The CIA? What does the CIA have to do with anything?" She was shaking her head with such a desperate look on her face that he could almost believe her confusion was genuine.  
  
"So you admit it! You've been working for the CIA all along?" he whispered in her ear. Pain and anger stained his voice, his body shaking with the violence of his quicksilver-maddened emotions.  
  
Lola pulled against his grasp like a swimmer fighting the undercurrent. "Yes, yes! But I still don't understand what my working with the Culinary Institute of America has to do with you!"   
  
It was the incongruity of her last desperate admission that stopped him. Still gripping her arms, he stared down at her, searching her fear-darkened eyes with his own bloodshot ones. "What?" He growled low in his throat. "Culinary what?"  
  
"Culinary Institute of America -- CIA, that's what you wanted to know, isn't it?" She squirmed weakly once again to free herself, begging through clenched teeth, "Please, Ray, you're hurting me."  
  
"Don't call me that!" He released her, throwing her back against the door. He closed his eyes, set his jaw, willed the monster back into the box. He froze like that for a moment, knuckles white with tension as he crushed the padding on the car seat in his grasp. Then he kicked the car door open behind him and burst forth onto the street.  
  
Not caring which direction he was headed, he let his long strides fly over the pavement, running as if his life depended on it. But it wasn't his life at stake, it was Lola's and his one thought was to get as far away from her as he could. Turning first down one alley then another and another. But as fast as he ran, the madness was faster. It was in the middle of fifth alley when the pain overtook him and he fell to the ground, his screams echoing off the brick walls of the buildings closing him in.  
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Lola stared at the empty seat where Ray had been sitting just moments before. Something was wrong, *seriously* wrong. She needed to tell someone but she didn't have a clue as to who she could call. She looked at his seat again, where only his jacket now remained. Shaking her head, she looked out the window in the direction he had taken, then back at his jacket with renewed interest.  
  
Digging through his pockets, she found a few business cards, all for the same person -- one Robert A. Hobbes who worked at something called The Agency. Hobbes ... Hobbes ... Hobbesy! That was what Ray had called his partner. Pulling her cellphone from her purse, she dialed.  
  
"The Agency," a female voice announced brusquely.  
  
"Yes, can you connect me with Mr. Hobbes' office, please?"  
  
"Mr. Hobbes? Office?" The woman's voice was tinged with amusement. "Yeah, sure. Hang on."  
  
Lola heard the line go mute as the call was transferred. On the second ring, a rich, male voice answered: "Hobbes here."  
  
"Yes, Mr. Hobbes, you don't know me but I'm calling on behalf of Ray Miller...."  
  
"Lola. You're Lola Gerot, aren't you?"  
  
"Why yes, I didn't think Ray would have mentioned me to you."  
  
"Listen, you can drop the act, sister. We know you have Fawkes. What I want to know is how do we get him back?"  
  
"What? Who?"  
  
"I don't know how much of his file you've read, my friend, but trust me, he's gonna get real nasty real soon and your people are *not* prepared for it."  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hobbes, I don't what you're talking about. I've been driving back from Sacramento with your partner, Ray Miller. He was complaining about a headache and I stopped to get something for it, when he had some sort of fit. Now he's run off and I'm afraid he's going to hurt himself or someone else ...."   
  
"Yeah, yeah. I'm sure you are. Tell you what: why don't you just tell me where you are so you can let Bobby Hobbes worry about finding him?"  
  
"Fine. I'm at the Kaiser Pharmacy on the corner of Bunker Hill and Revere. I'll wait for you here. Now please hurry."  
  
Lola flipped her phone closed and blinked. Mr. Hobbes sounded only slightly more rational than Ray had. She just couldn't reconcile the raving lunatic from the car with the goofily charming man she'd spent the last two days traveling with. Probably the smartest thing she could right now would be to put Ray's things out on the curb for his partner to pick up and then clear out before he got there. Yes, that's exactly what her sensible younger sister would advise. 'Then again,' she thought ruefully, 'I always did have lousy taste in men.'  
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Hobbes hung up the phone and gave a low whistle through his front teeth. This girl was good, real good. He turned to his boss and two female colleagues. Even in the dimness of the Keep, he could see the concern etched clearly on their faces. The Official, he knew, was concerned about keeping his secret weapon safe, both from harm and from prying eyes. Monroe was worried about a fellow agent, as any good agent would be. And Claire, well, he had a few suspicions as to why Claire was concerned -- some he liked, some he didn't.   
  
He sighed, better not to dwell on that topic, particularly when his partner was in danger. "OK, we know from our agents who picked up those Chrysali goons in Delano that she's CIA. So there's one of two scenarios going on here. #1: The CIA has already grabbed Fawkes and Lola calling us with this story is meant to throw us off the scent. After all, if we're on a wild goose chase for a quicksilver whacko, they've got more time to get away clean, no? Or #2: He actually did go whacko before they had the chance to make the pick-up and they're waiting for us to find him and fix him, *then* they'll try and grab him."  
  
"I'm voting for scenario #1," Alex announced.  
  
Bobby nodded his head, "For once, Monroe, we agree on something."  
  
Yes, but what if it's scenario #2 and Darien really has gone quicksilver mad?" Claire postulated.  
  
"Either way, it seems to me that the key is going to be one Lola Gerot, my friends. So I say we take a little drive over to the ole Kaiser Pharmacy and find out exactly what Miss CIA 2001 knows."  
  
"Alright, Bobby. But I'm taking a syringe of counteragent, just in case." Claire dug in the refrigerator for a vial of the blue liquid. She removed one and punctured it with a fresh needle.  
  
"Good, give it to Alex," he ordered in a tone that harkened back to his time in the Marines.  
  
"What?" Claire froze as she pulled a fully loaded syringe from the empty vial.  
  
"You're not coming this time, Claire. It's too risky," he said more gently.  
  
Claire faced him, pulling herself up to her full height and setting her jaw. "Bobby, you know I can handle myself ...."  
  
Bobby stood firm. "Look, you're our only ace-in-the-hole, Claire. If the CIA already does have Fawkes, then he's gonna pop real soon. When that happens, they're gonna have to come back to us for counteragent. But if we bring you out into the field and they nab you too, that's it, game over, Keepie."  
  
"He's right, Claire," the Official announced. "The best way for you to help Fawkes right now is to stay here."  
  
"Alright," Claire sighed, reluctantly putting the needle and its case into Alex's waiting hand. She watched as the Agency's own Steed and Peele moved away from her, their trained minds already sifting through the various engagement scenarios. Just before they exited the Keep, Claire jumped forward and impulsively grabbed Hobbes' forearm. "Bobby ...."  
  
He turned to her, his eyes locking on hers. "What?"  
  
She dropped her own eyes and could actually see the blush staining her cheeks at the intensity of his gaze. "Just ... just bring him back safe."  
  
Hobbes glanced at where her hand still gripped his arm, put his own hand over hers and squeezed. She felt a bit of his warmth soothing her coolness. He gave her a quick nod, his lips pressed in a tight line of concentration. "I will, Claire, count on it."  
  
She lifted her eyes up to meet his again. "I always do, Bobby," she said firmly. Then she released him and he was gone.  
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Darien opened his eyes and looked at the buildings surrounding him. Picking himself up off the ground, he wiped the dirt form his hands and knees. It was going to be alright now, he was calm. The answer had been there all along, right in front of him. He'd been running from it, but now, here, he was free to stop running, to simply reach out and take what he wanted. And what he wanted was Lola. Whistling a cheerful tune, he started out of the alley and back towards where he'd left her.  
  
His frenzied flight had taken him farther than he'd realized, but, now that he was thinking clearly again, it didn't take him all that long to retrace his steps. He let the quicksilver coat his rangy frame as he emerged from the alley onto Bunker Hill St. The car was still parked in front of the Kaiser Pharmacy, but Lola was no longer in it. Instead, she was standing outside it arguing vehemently with two other people: a compact, muscular man he recognized as Bobby and that red-headed bitch named Alex.  
  
Bobby and Lola continued to argue, gesturing dramatically at each other. Alex scanned the crowd forming on the street, slowly scrutinizing every direction with her sunglass-shielded eyes. Darien stepped back into the mouth of the alley as she looked his way. When she just continued along with her visual survey, he breathed a sigh of relief.   
  
Alex leaned over and whispered something into Bobby's ear, which seemed to bring the argument with Lola to a head. He pulled out his cuffs and, much to Lola's consternation, slapped them on her. Then they dragged Lola -- still shaking her head and repeating her favorite chorus of "no, no, no" -- to the van, threw her in back and sped away.  
  
Darien left the alley again, this time visibly sauntering over to the abandoned car. He slipped into the driver's seat and checked the ignition. How thoughtful of Lola to leave the keys. He put it in gear and leisurely pulled out into traffic. There was no real reason to rush. He knew where they were taking her. And it was better this way, really. Because now they could all play.  
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Darien parked the car a few blocks from the Agency, trying to decide his plan of action once he was inside. He was beside himself really, like a kid on Christmas morning -- so many victims, he hardly knew where to start.  
  
There was Hobbes. He'd slipped up on a few chances to kill that annoying little manic-depressive. Now, he'd make sure to finish the job. Then he'd start on his iceberg of a Keeper. Yeah, he could have some fun warming her up, all right. Alex next, perhaps? No, Eberts. He could make quick work of the fat man's toady and then play with Alex for a bit. The bitch had a tongue like a knife, so maybe he'd cut it out. Or no, he'd leave it in -- the better to hear her scream. Last but certainly not least, was the Official. He'd beaten his boss close to death once before, when he was under the influence of Simon Cole's mRNA. He truly regretted the fact that that lovely memory had been erased when the Keeper's anti-peptide shot had obliterated the rest of the original invisible man's memories from his brain. This time he'd record every snap of breaking bone, every shade of bloody bruise, every guttural moan that accompanied the old man's demise.  
  
But first there was Lola. She was a little bit of unfinished business he wanted wrapped up before taking his time and making them all pay for his last year and a half of torment.  
  
Darien smiled and stepped out of the car. Now that he'd gotten himself organized, he could set to work. Walking at the back edge of a crowd of pedestrians, he nonchalantly let the quicksilver flow and disappeared from sight. Using the flow of traffic on the sidewalk as a shield, he checked the front entrance of the Agency for guards wearing thermals. Not all that surprisingly, there weren't any. 'Cheap bastard probably couldn't afford 'em,' he thought.  
  
Slowly he made his way through the empty halls, the absence of agents not really worrying him. After all, the Agency was prone to sudden shifts in manpower thanks to the ever-present budgetary crisis. The whereabouts of Bobby and Alex did concern him, though he suspected he'd find them when he found Lola. And he had a definite idea about where that might be: the one place he hated most in the world, the padded cell.  
  
Sure enough, there was an agent standing guard outside the mouth of hell, and this one had thermals. Still invisible, Darien stood just inside the connecting corridor and removed some coins from his pocket. He tossed the quicksilver-coated change hard to the far end of the other hall. When the guard turned towards the noise, he charged from behind, brutally knocking the man's head against the wall. The guard slipped to the floor and Darien stepped over him to peek into the window of the door. Sure enough, Lola was locked inside, still arguing, this time with Monroe.  
  
He heard a sharp hiss from his left, turned, then felt a sting in his neck. The last thing he saw was the Keeper emerge from the doorway of the padded cell's observation room. She too wore thermals and was holding a tranquilizer gun. He de-quicksilvered and fell to his knees. "But I haven't even finished my turn yet," he whined, then fell over in a heap.  
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Darien bobbed back to the surface of consciousness slowly, drifting along for a little while on the current of conversation he heard. Finally he placed the two voices: Hobbes and Claire, his friends. He also realized that he was safe in the Keep, sitting in his usual chair.  
  
"That was a good shot, there, Keepie," Hobbes gushed at Claire, a bit like a shy 13-year old with a crush. "You got some aim."  
  
"Well, thank you, Bobby," Claire answered sweetly, "but really it was your plan. You're the one who guessed that Darien would fixate on Lola after going quicksilver mad." She frowned and furrowed her brows, "I do wish you hadn't had to arrest her though."  
  
"Yeah, well we did think she was CIA and had kidnapped Fawkes," Bobby scratched his chin. "All the same I, I do feel kinda bad. I mean we did throw her in the padded cell..."  
  
Darien groaned, put a hand to his head. "Oh. My. God. You threw Lola in the padded cell!"  
  
"Hey, Fawkesy, you're awake! Good to see you up and around there, partner," Hobbes slapped Darien on the back, causing the groggy agent to wince, "uhm, so to speak,".  
  
"Please, Bobby, tell me you did not throw Lola in the padded cell."  
  
"Yeah, well, where else was Monroe gonna interrogate her? Don't you remember, kid?"  
  
"You let *Alex* interrogate her? Oh man, this just keeps getting better ..."  
  
"Hey, excuse me. Bobby Hobbes had his hands a little full right then. I had to worry about searching her luggage *and* finding you so we could give you your Visine fix there, ole Red Eyes."  
  
"Oh man, you searched her bag?"  
  
"Yeah. What? I was supposed to just ignore the fact that as a CIA operative she might have guns and explosives in there?"  
  
"It was not his fault, Darien," Claire countered in Bobby's defense, "We all did think that Lola was with the CIA."  
  
The doors swished open and Alex entered the Keep, her usual sarcastic smirk plastered across her lovely face. "Oh yes, it was one of Hobbes' finer moments, actually. Bomb squad at the ready, he gingerly opened the zipper on her duffel and began to remove all that high tech weaponry," she snorted delicately, "You know: stilettos, clogs, mules, dress pumps, sneakers ...."  
  
Darien's jaw dropped open. "Shoes!" he spluttered, "You mean that duffel, that, that, that *lead weight* I hauled around like a pack animal was full of *shoes*?"  
  
"Well, yeah, they were shoes. But hey, you never know. Any one of them could have been a small nuclear device ingeniously disguised by our friends over at the Company. And you know Bobby Hobbes' motto."  
  
"Always double up on your medication?" Darien and Alex spouted out in stereo.  
  
"No. Better safe than sorry, my friends. Yes, thanks to the agency's trusty x-ray scanners, I for one can tell you with all certainty that each of those shoes is exactly what it appears to be: expensive, well-made, and completely harmless."  
  
Darien was feeling well enough now to grace Hobbes with a sarcastic smirk. "Wow, Bobby. Way to keep America safe for democracy."  
  
"Just doin' my job, Fawkes, just doin' my job." Hobbes pursed his lips and shook his head at his greenhorn partner.  
  
Hopping from his chair, Darien stretched his long limbs and started towards the door. "Well, I guess I better go find her. Man, is she gonna be pissed. I can't believe you arrested her," he stopped in mid-sentence and looked over at his three co-workers. "Hey, just what did convince you finally that she wasn't with the CIA?"  
  
The Keep's door swished open and Darien was almost bowled over by an innocuous figure carrying a stack of files. "That would have been me."  
  
"You, Ebes? Hobbes listened to you?" Darien turned to his partner, "What's up with that, Bobby?"  
  
Hobbes rubbed his temples, "Well, you know, every once in a while the little weasel does manage to a make a few salient points."  
  
"Excuse me, Robert, but may I point out that *I* saved this Agency from a wrongful arrest suit that *you* opened us up to ...."  
  
Hobbes leapt at the bait. "Wrongful arrest, my sweet Aunt Fanny. There's no way in hell she ever could have made that stick, *Eberts*."  
  
"Guys, guys," Darien pleaded, "As nauseating as this little spat is, could somebody please answer my question? How did you guys find out about Lola?"  
  
"Well, you see, Darien," Eberts began, "I had recently just returned from my vacation to the West Coast Videogaming Olympics -- where I might add I took the gold in Mortal Kombat Advance ...."  
  
"Oh, Albert, that's wonderful!" Claire gave the Agency's resident milquetoast a quick hug.  
  
"Yeah, Ebes, just great," Darien added, "Now, please, I'm begging ya here ...."  
  
"Oh, of course. As I said, I had just returned from vacation today and so was unaware of the identity of the alleged CIA operative Agents Hobbes and Monroe had implicated in your disappearance. However, I did have to deliver some files to the Official while Miss Monroe was ... 'interviewing' Miss Gerot in the padded room ...."  
  
Darien groaned, "Interviewing. Yeah, right. I'm sure that's just what she was doing ...."  
  
"Don't start with me, Fawkes. It's your criminal ass I was trying to save," Alex shot back.  
  
"Ahem," Eberts cleared his throat, "If I may continue?" The sniping stopped and the Official's toady began again. "Anyway, I recognized Miss Gerot as the owner of my local bakery," he licked his lips and whispered conspiratorially to Darien, "She makes the best cherry-cinnamon jumbles."  
  
Darien raised his eyebrows and smiled weakly at his mild-mannered co-worker. "Thanks, Ebes, it's ... vaguely disturbing that you think so."  
  
"And once I had vouchsafed Miss Gerot's identity, the Official, of course, ordered her released from the padded cell. Ah, once we had uhm, trapped and tranquilized you, that is."  
  
"Of course," Darien deadpanned. "Well, I better go find her ...."  
  
"Oh, she's with the Official," Eberts offered.  
  
"What now? With the Official? Alone?" Darien was quickly approaching panic.  
  
"Why yes. He's debriefing her before she leaves."  
  
"Oh man, first Alex, now the Official -- this *can't* be good." Darien dashed out of the Keep, not even noticing that Bobby and Eberts were hot on his heels.  
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Darien could hear his boss dumping a load of Official-speak on Lola even as he approached the fat man's office.  
  
" I'm pleased to inform you, Miss Gerot, that it's been ascertained that due to your lack of classified knowledge, you can be allowed to return to your normal life without the threat of a security breach. However, I must strongly advise you not to discuss any of the last few day's events with anyone, ever, for the sake of this nation's security, as well as your own. And remember, we will be watching."  
  
He burst in, startling them both, and headed straight for Lola. "Hey, Lo. God, I'm glad you're OK. Here, c'mon, let me take you home..."  
  
She sat, motionless, without even an upwards glance at him. "What's your name?"  
  
"Look, I'm sorry, I know it's been a lot for you to process..."  
  
"What's your name?" she demanded.  
  
Darien looked at her, hunched in the chair, taking slow, measured breaths. He couldn't see her face but he didn't have to. He knew the expression it held. He'd seen it long ago as Casey sat staring at him in a courtroom. He wasn't quite sure how he'd wound up at the same crossroads with Lola, but maybe, just maybe, he could salvage this. After all, honesty was the best policy, right?  
  
"Darien Fawkes."  
  
She got up slowly, still staring at the floor, shaking her head slightly as she moved towards him. "Nothing, then ... not even in the beginning ... not one thing, not one *true* thing," she said softly, as if to herself. She lifted her face to stare up at him, nailing him to the floor with her eyes.  
  
"Oh, baby, I know I've got some explaining to do..."  
  
"You lying bastard," she growled and with that her arm flew out and connected squarely across his face. "I don't want your explanations."  
  
One more deja vu, Darien thought as he remembered the sting of Casey's slap in the hospital when he'd first gone to see her to ask for her help with the gland. He was still shaking his head from Lola's blow -- he hadn't expected someone so tiny to be so strong -- when he realized she was almost out the door.  
  
"Lo, wait." He reached out to catch her elbow.  
  
"No," she hissed and jerked out of his reach. "Don't you touch me. Don't come near me. Just stay the *hell* away from me." And with that she was gone.  
  
For a few moments, no one moved. Darien just stood, staring at the doorway and listening to the click of Lola's heels moving farther and farther down the hall. Finally, the Official broke the spell with a quick hand motion to Eberts, who went scurrying off to ensure that she was safely escorted out of the Agency.   
  
Hobbes came up behind Darien and put his hand lightly on the taller man's shoulder. "Aren't you going to go after her, my friend? You don't let a woman like that just walk out of your life."  
  
"Nah, Bobby, trust me, I've been here before. Once they leave like that, they're gone for good." He rubbed a hand across his chin and sighed. It had been a long few days and these last minutes the longest of all. Darien shrugged off Hobbes' hand and started out the door.  
  
"Where do you think you're going?" the Official demanded.  
  
"To get drunk. I mean, I think I should celebrate, don't you? I've finally become the agent you've always wanted me to be -- someone willing to lie and betray an innocent woman's trust just to keep himself and this damn Agency's secrets safe."  
  
"Oh, I don't think I deserve all the credit," the Official gave Darien a Cheshire grin. "After all, you said it yourself: you've been here before. Or are you still trying to convince yourself that Kevin and the gland are to blame for Casey?"  
  
"You, Kevin and the damned gland can all go to hell," Darien retorted, slamming the door behind him for emphasis.  
  
Hobbes turned to the Official and cocked his eyebrows in the direction of the door.  
  
"Yeah," the Official replied to the unspoken question, "Look after him, Bobby."  
  
"Don't I always," Bobby said without turning as he exited the office, "Don't I always."  
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The great American dramatist Eugene O'Neill once wrote: "There is no present or future, only the past, happening over and over again, now." Now, that's a very eloquent way of saying that no matter how hard or how fast you run, there's no escaping your past. Of course, I think the great 20th century Buddha named Yogi Berra said it best: "It's déjà vu all over again." Word.  
  
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FINAL, 12/12/01, Page 56 of 56 


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